


A Very Johnlock Christmas

by nonotanymore



Series: A Johnlock Holiday Collection [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Mystrade Confirmed, in which John makes Sherlock do things he doesn't want to do, in which Mrs. Hudson is the best person ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:15:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 33,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21632044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonotanymore/pseuds/nonotanymore
Summary: In the month leading up to Christmas John and Sherlock get into festive shenanigans and explore their new relationship.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: A Johnlock Holiday Collection [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559143
Comments: 8
Kudos: 103





	1. Day 1 - Decorating the Tree

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on this list of prompts by Winter-Soldier-Love on Tumblr:  
> https://winter-soldier-love.tumblr.com/post/188743965077/countdown-to-christmas-drawingwriting-prompts

“Sherlock COME ON, you promised you’d help me,” John called. 

“I did no such thing,” replied Sherlock. 

John Watson looked over the stack of Christmas decorations and tinsel that was perched precariously in his arms to where Sherlock was sitting in the kitchen. “Could you at least help me carry these?” He asked, adjusting the teetering stack. 

“No,” said Sherlock placidly without looking up from his microscope. John rolled his eyes and shuffled over to the table, decorations wavering dangerously, and dumped the stack onto the cleanest spot he could find. “John be careful,” Sherlock called at the sound of boxes clattering, “you’re going to break something.” John threw a fake pinecone at him. 

Sherlock seemed unperturbed by the plastic pinecone bouncing off his head. “Sherlock if you don’t get over here and help me decorate this damn tree I’ll tell Mrs. Hudson it was you who broke her favorite teapot.” Sherlock’s head snapped up in an instant. 

“Fine but you owe me a hot chocolate,” he snapped, “and I get absolute authority on authority on ornament placement.” He put a lid on his Petri dish, dumped his test tubes in the sink, and stomped over to the tree, his dressing gown swishing angrily at his ankles. 

“Stop pouting and check if these lights work,” said John handing him a string of lights and placing a kiss on his cheek. 

“Only for Mrs. Hudson.” When John glanced over at Sherlock a moment later his face was illuminated by the lights and each color was playing off the contours of his expression. “What are you looking at John?” Sherlock asked, turning to meet his gaze. 

John could feel his voice getting thick with affection as he gazed at Sherlock’s brightly lit face. “You,” he said, feeling silly, but not caring. Sherlock blinked slowly and didn’t say anything. He still seemed a little lost when it came to openly showing affection for one another. They’d finally gotten around to admitting their feelings for each other two months ago and things had been progressing slowly but steadily since. And John was certainly glad the silently pining phase was over, he couldn’t say he enjoyed feeling like a teenager again. 

Coming out of his temporary stupor Sherlock snapped the lights off and stood up. “Yep, these work,” he said, ruining the moment. John sighed internally and shook his head, turning back to the tree. With anyone else he would have been annoyed. With Sherlock, well, he didn’t. He just felt amazed that he had managed to charm this incredible person, and terrified that one day Sherlock would really shake out his stupor and realize what a sodding mess John was. But for now John just felt content to sigh and start wrapping lights around the tree. 

Sherlock joined him by the tree, helping to wrap the lights around to the other side. When they were finished with the lights they pulled out the gigantic box of ornaments that John had been lugging around since his early twenties. “How does one acquire this many Christmas tree ornaments?” Sherlock asked as he began unpacking the ornaments from the box. 

“How does one go their entire adult life without acquiring any Christmas tree ornaments?” Was John’s retort. Sherlock shrugged, tilted his head as if to say “touché,” and began assessing John’s massive ornament collection. 

“These will have to go in the back, they’re ugly,” he said handing John a stack of ornaments. John opened his mouth to protest but, seeing that Sherlock was right, closed it again and headed around to the back of the tree to hang them where they couldn’t be seen. Sherlock stood up again and began hanging John’s less horrible ornaments on the front of the tree. John could see him through the branches sizing up each ornament and carefully deciding where to place it. It was kind of funny, the way he examined each ornament and deliberately decided which branch to hang it on. 

John wanted to tell him it’s not that deep, just hang them wherever, but it was amusing to watch Sherlock laboriously deliberate over each ornament’s placement, and they would undoubtedly have the most evenly distributed ornament, in terms of size and color, in all of London. So he just watched Sherlock through the branches and finished haphazardly hanging the uglier of his ornaments randomly around the back end of their tree. 

As he eased himself from the cramped corner he’d been standing in behind the tree back around to where Sherlock was Sherlock stepped back to assess his own handiwork. John went to stand next to him and leaned his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. “Looks nice,” he said. 

“No,” said Sherlock, stepping forward without warning and nearly sending John toppling over. He began fussily switching ornaments around and muttering to himself. In that moment he reminded John uncannily of his brother Mycroft, who John could easily imagine obsessing over the exact placement of Christmas tree ornaments. “That’s better,” said Sherlock after a moment and he returned to his place next to John. John couldn’t see any difference, but somehow the tree did look better so he nodded in agreement and slid his hand around Sherlock’s waist. “It looks lovely,” he murmured. 

Sherlock nodded and tilted his head so that his cheek rested on the top of John’s hair. They stood like that for a while, John gazing at the tree in smiling contentment and Sherlock looking at it with a contemplative frown. John knew Sherlock’s mind was entirely elsewhere, but he couldn’t help think about how many moments they’d spent like this, only a few feet apart instead of tucked together as they were now. “We wanted so much time,” he whispered, “we could have been like this from the very beginning.” 

Sherlock was silent for a moment before saying “John, I don't think we should do anything but enjoy what we have now. And I don’t think we’d have been able to be exactly as happy as we are now without first going through all of our other phases first. You are happy aren’t you?” 

This was so uncharacteristically emotionally articulate of Sherlock that John almost pulled away to look him in the eyes and make sure it was the same man he had kissed for the first time two months ago. “Yes, you make me very happy,” he said, knowing that was what Sherlock was really asking. “I just want to get as much happiness from you as I can, for as long all you’ll let me.” 

“John I will stay here and make you happy for a very long time.” They continued standing like that for a while, John enjoying the warmth emanating from Sherlock and the tree, Sherlock’s mind taking in eighteen different things at once, not a few of which included the soft texture of John’s hair and the comforting smell of his shampoo. Outside the sun was setting and as it got dark London came alive, lights flickering on and people calling out to one another. But in their flat John and Sherlock stood, silently enveloped in each other’s company. And though neither said a word they could both hear the other making a promise to stay and make the person standing next to them happy for a long, long time.


	2. Day 2 - Traditions

“John I’m bored,” was how Sherlock greeted John as he entered 221b Baker Street, arms laden with groceries. Sherlock was stretched across the coach, feet dangling over the arm rest and his dressing gown spilling beneath him and pooling onto the floor. He was tossing a hot pink rubber ball against the wall across the apartment and catching it when it bounced back. As John stepped into the flat Sherlock turned the ball in his direction and it hit the doorjamb dangerously close to John’s head. 

“You could help me with these, you know,” John said.

“No, boring.” John maneuvered the door closed with his foot and went to the kitchen where he unceremoniously dumped the groceries onto the counter. He then went back into the living room, catching Sherlock’s ball as he did so. He bent over Sherlock so that their chests were parallel and gave him a long kiss. As he began to pull back Sherlock followed him, starting to sit up on his elbows. John broke away and began to rise. “No, stay here. Kiss me again,” said Sherlock. 

John smiled, “I’ll kiss you again if you help me put away the groceries.” 

“You need to stop manipulating me into helping you with things,” Sherlock said, swinging his knees forward and shooting an annoyed glance at the Christmas tree in the corner. He strode into the kitchen where the groceries were waiting patiently to be put away. Sherlock took the cans of soup to cabinet while John grabbed the milk and eggs and turned to the fridge. But when he opened it he gave a shout and nearly dropped the egg carton he was holding. 

“Sherlock what the hell is that?” He asked, eggs still teetering dangerously in his arms. 

“What the hell is what?” Sherlock asked, putting the last of the soup away and walking over to where John was standing in front of the open fridge. John gestured weakly at the jar of murky, yellow liquid that had strange pink lumps of flesh floating in it. “Oh, those are my pickled kidneys.” 

John nearly dropped the eggs a second time. At this point he should be used to finding assorted body parts in various places around the flat, but it never seemed to become a normal thing that ceased to shock and disgust him. “And why, pray tell, are your pickled kidneys in our fridge?” 

“Well where else am I going to keep them?”

“Oh I don’t know, maybe in a laboratory!” This was a fight they had had again and again.

“But they need constant monitoring,” Sherlock would protest. 

“Not it my house they don’t,” John would retort. Neither would ever budge. John shoves the jar to the back of the fridge and put the milk and eggs on the shelf above it. “Any new clients while I was gone?” He asked. 

Sherlock glanced at him and began tossing lemons into the cupboard. “Based on my state of ennui when you returned what would you deduce?” 

John rolled his eyes and - “hey, be gentle with those lemons,” began putting his ready meals into the freezer. Sherlock moved on to manhandling avocados. “It’s been kind of slow though, we need to get something soon,” John said, glancing at the stack of bills on the dining table. 

“I know,” agreed Sherlock, “all this Christmas cheer is putting people into such a good mood. We need the holidays to pass so they’ll start murdering each other again.” At this John almost keeled over. He marveled at the things that came out of Sherlock’s mouth sometimes, and while he was still marveling over Sherlock’s casual use of the word ennui, this really took the cake. 

“Sherlock, Christmas cheer is a good thing.” 

“No, it serves absolutely no purpose.” 

“Sure it does, it brings people together.” 

“How does it bring people together? If anything, all of the holiday commercialism is tearing us apart. I’m America they’ve started shooting each other over half priced video game consuls.” 

“Well yes, that’s technically true,” John conceited, “ but still, holiday traditions give people something they can share.” 

“Whatever,” said Sherlock, putting the last of the fruits away. “I still think we need a nice murder.” John looked past the bills at the mess Sherlock had made in his fit of boredom, or ennui, as he put it, while John was at the store, and couldn’t help but agree. When he saw the apples Sherlock had thrown haphazardly into a bowl he was struck with an idea. “Alright, that’s it. When we’re finished putting this stuff away we’re going out.” He said. 

“What? Where?” Asked Sherlock. 

“You’ll see,” replied John. They finished putting the last of the groceries and headed down stairs to put on their coats. 

“Wait,” said Sherlock as John put his hand on the doorknob. “I get a kiss for helping with the groceries.” John gave him a quick peck but Sherlock slid his hands around his waist to keep him from pulling away. “A proper one,” he demanded. John rolled his eyes but leaned in and obligingly gave Sherlock a long kiss, twining his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and letting them linger. 

Despite their romantic moment inside, when they stepped out the door Sherlock shoved his hands deep into his pockets before John could reach out. John has been surprised to find that, in spite of his own vehement denial of his own sexuality, it was Sherlock who shied away from holding hands in public. “Alright John, where is our mystery destination?” He asked. 

“Well,” said John, stepping from their stoop onto the busy pavement, “since I owe you a hot chocolate, and I’m in the mood for apple cider, we’re going out for festive drinks to prove to you that holidays are fun.” 

Sherlock gave him an incredulous look. “John, I think this is an incredibly stupid way of getting me to like Christmas, but since you do owe me a hot chocolate I'm going along with this.” They walked to a cafe around the block and when they stepped inside they were slammed in the face with a wall of hot air and festive cheer. The cafe had been transformed into a gaudy Christmas nightmare. There were strands of tinsel and snowflake garlands strung everywhere and every table was topped by a large plastic snowman. Sherlock pressed his lips together, though whether in amusement or disgust John couldn’t tell. “Yes,” said Sherlock leaning down to whisper in John’s ear, “ this is a very bad way of getting me to like Christmas.” 

At the counter a girl wearing fake reindeer antlers greeted them, “What can I get for you today?” Sherlock sizes her up with a raised eyebrow. 

“A hot chocolate and an apple cider please,” he said.

“Ok, do you want whipped cream on that hot chocolate?” She asked. John looked up at Sherlock, eyebrows raised, curious what he would say. He shot a look at John before nodding. “Yes, please.” 

“Alrighty, can do,” she said, typing their order into her register, “is that for here of to go?” 

“For here,” “To go,” said John and Sherlock at the same time. The girl behind the counter raised her eyebrows. Sherlock glared at them both. “Fine, for here.” 

“Great, that’ll be just a few minutes,” said the girl. They payed and went to find a table. Picking a seat by the window Sherlock angled himself so that he was facing towards the street and was turned almost entirely away from the rest of the cafe. 

“Sherlock that is cheating, you have to look at the Christmas stuff,” said John sliding into the chair across from him. Sherlock reluctantly swiveled to face him and the rest of the terrible Christmas decor. John stifled a laugh at Sherlock’s grumpy expression. “I know, this stuff is really horrible,” he said, pushing the fake snowman at Sherlock. 

“Keep that thing away from me,” Sherlock replied, pushing the snowman back. As he did another girl appeared, this one wearing a glittery Santa hat, and placed their mugs in front of them. 

“Enjoy!” She said brightly. 

“I am not enjoying this, thank you very much,” Sherlock muttered as she walked away. 

“Yes you are, come on,” John said nudging him with his foot under the table. 

“No,” said Sherlock stonily, “I am not. I would prefer to never come here again, too much cheer.” He said the last part with a playful glint in his eye. 

“We are coming here again, I just thought of a tradition for us,” said John foreseeing an annual bout of holiday ennui in Sherlock. 

“What’s that?” Asked Sherlock. 

“Every year, December 2nd, we come here for festive drinks.” 

“John that is the worst tradition I’ve ever heard.” 

“Well we’re doing it. Mark your calendar. Next year you, me, and Mr. Snowman here have a date for hot chocolate and apple cider.” 

Sherlock shook his head, leaned back in his chair, and took a sip of his hot chocolate with an air of finality, as he was marking the end of the conversation. When he set the cup down he had a mustache of whipped cream on his upper lip. John snorted and Sherlock, realizing what had happened, hastily whipped it off and glanced around to see if anyone had seen. 

John laughed at his expression and took a sip of his cider. “You look amazing,” he said, “you’re getting into the Christmas spirit already.” Sherlock’s frown was firmly in place as they finished their drinks and headed back to Baker Street. But John could tell, from the glint in his eye and the way he jostled John’s shoulder affectionately as they were walking, that Sherlock would be enjoying Christmas indeed.


	3. Day 3 - Christmas Sweaters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to everyone who has read so far, it means the world to me!

“Oh Mrs. Hudson, you shouldn’t have,” said John, looking at the sweater she had made him. 

“Yes Mrs. Hudson. You really shouldn’t have,” agreed Sherlock holding up his own sweater, a green and red argyle number. John looked down at the sweater in his lap, cream with blue and grey snowflakes, and grimaced internally. He wasn’t opposed to sweaters, but this was one he wasn’t looking forward to wearing in public. 

Mrs. Hudson had knocked on their door a few minutes before, the expression on her face eager, determined, and a bit hopeful. “Are those for us?” John had asked, nodding towards the two rectangular white boxes in her hands. 

“Yes, this one’s for you,” she said, handing him the top box. “And this one’s for you.” She brought the second box to where Sherlock was sitting in his chair and handed it to him. He smiled, set the lab report Molly had sent him aside, and took the box into his hands. John sat down into chair and glanced at Sherlock, who gave him a questioning look. John shrugged slightly as if to say “I don’t know any more than you do.” 

Mrs. Hudson looked at them expectantly and urged them on. “Well, open them,” she said. 

“What? Now?” asked John, “shouldn’t we wait until Christmas?” 

“Oh no, I think you’d prefer to open them right away,” she replied. John furrowed his brow, more confused than ever, and lifted the lid off his box. Sherlock followed suit and they pulled aside their tissue paper in unison. Together they pulled out their respective sweaters and held them up to appraise. After a moment of gazing in disbelief John let his sweater collapse into his lap, but Sherlock continued inspecting his, holding it up to the light to examine the stitches. 

“Mrs, Hudson,” he said, looking at her over the top of his sweater, “did you make these?” When she nodded several things seemed to click into place in John’s mind. It was in this moment that he gratefully told her she shouldn’t have and Sherlock replied in the affirmative. 

“You boys have done so much for me, and I’m not your house keeper, so stop asking for tea and biscuits, but I wanted to do something nice for you.” John smiled faintly, unsure if he wanted to hug her or send her out so he could set the sweater on fire without hurting her feelings. Based on his own internal battle he was terrified of how Sherlock would react. But before he could loudly change the subject to avoid Sherlock’s inevitably rude response Sherlock set his sweater down and stood, looking Mrs. Hudson in the eye. John took a deep breath and braced himself. 

“Mrs. Hudson,” said Sherlock, “this may be the ugliest sweater I’ve ever seen, but it’s also the kindest and most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received.” John bit the inside of his cheek, even more unsure how to react to this. 

“Oh Sherlock,” said Mrs. Hudson, “I’m glad you like it.” For a moment John was afraid they might hug but both sat down without embracing and John let out a sigh of relief, glad they wouldn’t be losing their flat anytime soon. To John’s surprise, Sherlock pulled the sweater on over his shirt and held out his hands as if to say “ta-da.” Mrs. Hudson looked extremely pleased with herself and John, feeling left out, pulled on his own sweater. It wasn’t scratchy at all, instead it was soft and warm and John found himself wanting to never take it off, despite its vulgar appearance. 

Mrs. Hudson beamed at them, “don’t you two look nice?” she asked. John and Sherlock shared a dubious look, it neither denied it. “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” she said, standing, “but I wanted to give them to you now so you’d have the whole Christmas season to wear them.” She smiled and left, pausing to wish them a happy Christmas before shutting the door behind herself. She left a very happy Sherlock and a very perplexed John in her wake, both of whom were getting very toasty, but neither of whom were planning on taking off their sweaters any time soon. 

“So... Mrs. Hudson made us sweaters,” said Sherlock, rubbing his hands against his thighs as if to warm them up. “I suppose we’ll have to make a few appearances in these.” 

“I suppose we will,” said John, he eyes following Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock, realizing that John was watching, stopped and they both looked up, Sherlock with his eyebrows raised and John with a slightly sheepish expression. 

As their eyes met Sherlock’s expression changed. “Come here,” he said. John stood obligingly, not really sure what he meant, and walked the two steps over to Sherlock’s chair. To John’s surprise Sherlock reached out and pulled him into his lap, bringing John’s shocked face nose to nose with his own mischievous one. 

“What on earth Sherlock?” John asked, adjusting himself into a more comfortable position. 

“Well you were gazing longingly at my lap, I can only assume that you wanted to sit in it.” 

“I was not gazing longingly at your lap,” John protested, but he had to admit, now that he was here he was not planning on leaving. Instead he wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck and nestled his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock picked up the lab report he had been reading and resumed going over its contents. John was content to just stare off into space and revel in the bliss of sitting in Sherlock’s lap. He was still amazed that this was something Sherlock not only allowed, but actually welcomed. After several minutes of quiet bliss Mrs. Hudson popped her head in the doorway and both were so startled that they concurrently jumped out of their skins and John ended up on the floor as a result, the pages of Sherlock’s lab report floating down around him. 

When they had first gotten together, romantically speaking, neither of them had been sure how to tell Mrs. Hudson. At first they had thought they would sit her down and have a talk with her about it. But then they thought, maybe that isn’t necessary since she had mistaken us as a couple at the very beginning. But no, they’d decided, she should be told in an official capacity. So they planned on talking to her about it over a dinner. But when both chickened out John suggested that they just kiss in front of her or something. And somehow, over the course of all this deliberation, two months had gone by and she still didn’t know. At least to their knowledge. And now she had walked in on John sitting on Sherlock’s lap, which had absolutely no platonic explanation. 

“I just came back to see if-“ she stopped abruptly and stared at them. She recovered much quicker than John and Sherlock though, one of whom was so red-faced that she was actually worried for his health, and the other of whom had curled into a ball and didn’t look like he’d be returning to a normal posture anytime soon. 

For a moment the room was completely silent then Mrs. Hudson burst out laughing. “Well finally,” she said, “you two took so long to get together I thought I’d be six feet under by the time it finally happened.” Slowly Sherlock’s face reappeared from where he had hidden it behind his knees and John’s regained its normal coloring. Looking at their expressions of disbelief Mrs. Hudson sighed. “You two, I can’t believe you. How am I more in tune with your feelings than you are? Honestly. You’ve been pining over each other so long I was about ready to lock you two in the broom closet and letting you figure it out that way.” Both John and Sherlock blushed deeply at this. 

“Well, how long has this been going on?” she asked, indicating between them with her finger. John and Sherlock stared at her wearing matching expressions of embarrassment, dismay, and a touch of relief that they didn’t have to sit her down and explain everything. “Well, how long?” she insisted after several seconds of silence. 

Finally John coughed and muttered “two months.” He felt like a scolded schoolboy and based on the look on Sherlock’s face, the feeling was mutual. 

“Two months, that makes sense,” said Mrs, Hudson, nodding, “and honestly, how long did you think you keep this from me?” This did nothing to help John’s feeling as though he was being scolded by a schoolmistress. 

Both John and Sherlock launched into their explanations at the same time, their sentences getting mixed into a jumble of “were going to tell you,” and “there was a dinner planned,” and “he chickened out.” 

Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow at their hurried explanations. When they fell silent she smiled and gave them another once over in their Christmas sweaters and shamefaced expressions. “Well I’m happy for you,” she said, “and hopefully this means you’ll start making each other tea and stop asking me to do it.” John looked doubtfully at Sherlock but didn’t say anything. Instead he placed a hand on Sherlock’s knee and smiled, glad to finally have gotten telling Mrs. Hudson over with. Even though he had known she wouldn’t react poorly it had weighed heavily on his mind and he was happy to have that weight lifted. Sherlock continued to look mortified for some time, even after Mrs. Hudson had shut the door behind her again and left them in silence once more. They sat like that for some time, neither saying anything, as neither were quite sure how to articulate just how horrifyingly wonderful that entire experience had been. 

At some point John returned from his place the floor to his chair across from Sherlock. Sherlock collected his fallen lab report and resumed reading it. Both silently agreed not to acknowledge what had just happened and instead stop sneaking around behind Mrs. Hudson’s back. In just one day Mrs. Hudson had given them handmade Christmas sweaters and her stamp of approval on their relationship and it was with these gifts that Sherlock and John continued their lives, at once the same and completely changed.


	4. Day 4 - First Snow Day

“John can you hand me my tweezers please?” Sherlock Holmes asked as he leaned over a dead body, examining its clothes and hair with his typical meticulous scrutiny. John obligingly handed Sherlock the tweezers and went back to examining the scene surrounding the body with Inspector Lestrade. The body in question was a young woman who was lying on her stomach with a long slit across her throat and a puddle of red blood pooling beneath her. Clutched in her hand was the torn corner of a piece of paper. 

“When we found her, she had absolutely no identification,” Lestrade had said, “no ID, no driver’s license, not even a phone.” This may have presented a challenge for the police but Sherlock had shrugged and strode forward to where the body was lying. He crouched down next to it without a word and everyone else went off to search the surrounding area for clues as to her, or her killer’s, identity. John and Lestrade stuck close to Sherlock and the body, John to take notes and assist Sherlock if he asked for it, and Lestrade to keep an eye on Sherlock. They were in a sort of alley or courtyard behind a cluster of buildings. Trash cans were pushed against the walls and there was a stench of rotted garbage in the air. 

“So, you two are a thing now?” Lestrade asked John as they bent down together to look through a stack of plastic bags that had been discarded recently in a corner. Sherlock had arrived with his arm slung around John’s shoulder. Their conversation with Mrs. Hudson the day before had seemed to spark in him an increased need to be very close to John at all times. Even in public, which he usually shied away from. 

“Um, yeah,” said John, “we have been for a little while now.” 

“Mhm, that makes sense, you two are always so…” Lestrade trailed off and waved his hand as if that was an explanation, letting the rest of his sentence hang in midair. 

“What? Sherlock and I are always so what?” 

“Well, you know. Connected. In sync with each other. People always think you’re a couple anyway.” This, John had to admit, was true. “I’d have thought you two would get together sooner honestly,” Lestrade continued. John shrugged and continued examining the ground. 

“Alright,” called Sherlock after a few minutes, “Lestrade, come here.” John and Lestrade stood and headed back over to where Sherlock and the body were. Once they got closer Sherlock began pointing out things on the body. “She shows none of the signs of recent long-distance travel, establishing that she lives here and isn’t some kind of tourist or visitor. Her clothes are expensive, but not designer,” he said, indicating to her outfit, “and it seems that she’s dressed for work. Her outfit indicates that she works in a high-power job, in a nicer area, but not in a very high position, a hypothesis supported by her age. Based on how worn her heels are we can see that she walks quite a bit, but the scuff marks show that that walking is done outside rather than indoors. Therefore, she walks to work every day, rather than taking the tube or some other form of transportation.” 

He pulled out his phone, opened a map of London, and began pointing out areas to Lestrade where she likely lived based the salary he thought she made that were in walking distance of where he thought she worked. “If her fingerprints don’t bring up any results you can rule out a government job and eliminate these areas,” Sherlock said and pointed to the map again. Lestrade seem both annoyed and amazed by this, as he always did. “If a missing person report comes from one of those areas that matches her description then you’ve probably found out who she is,” John finished scribbling that last of his notes and closed his notepad, Lestrade nodded. 

“Right, so, we’ll get started on analyzing her DNA at the lab then,” he said. As Sherlock started to answer flakes of snow began to fall. The trio looked up at the sky as if to check that this was where the snowflakes were coming from. Snowflakes landed on their faces and melted, leaving little water droplets in their place. The snowflakes were melting as soon as they hit the pavement as well, and Lestrade threw up his hands in frustration. “Damn it, all of the evidence is going to be gone when this is done,” he said. Already the pool of blood beneath the girl was starting to get watery and wash away. 

“I’ve got photos,” called an investigator from a few feet away, holding up his camera. 

“Yeah, and I’ve got my notes,” said John. 

“And we of course have my brain,” said Sherlock, tapping his temple. 

Lestrade shoved his hands into his pockets, still looking annoyed. “Great,” he said in a tone that suggested this was not great. “Like I said, we’ll test her DNA in the lab. If you want you can come along and examine her body more in the morgue.” 

‘No,” said Sherlock, “that’s fine. But can I have that piece of paper in her hand?” 

“Sure,” said Lestrade, looking around as if to figure out which inspector had the paper, “I’ll get it for you.” 

“Already got it,” said Sherlock, holding up a clear evidence bag with the scrap of paper inside. He turned on his heel and began walking away. John, after a quick parting nod to Lestrade, hurried after him. 

Out on the street people were hurrying by or ducking into doorways to avoid the snow. It was still just lightly falling, not even really dusting the top of buildings. Flakes were caught in Sherlock’s hair and John found himself staring at them, confused and mesmerized by the fact that they didn’t melt. He had a sudden urge to brush them away, and his acted on it, running his hand across the top of Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock didn’t react. Instead he seemed lost in thought as they walked down the street. “Any ideas?” John asked. 

“About the case? Yes, several,” Sherlock replied, but didn’t elaborate and went back to staring pensively at the ground. 

“Care to share any of them?” John asked. 

“Not yet, no. Although that piece of paper is intriguing. Why would she have it and nothing else?” John thought for a moment, but came up with nothing and shrugged. They walked for a while longer in silence. As they did, the snow got heavier and began to stick. By the time they got back to Baker Street Sherlock’s hair was completely full of the stuff. Sherlock shook his head, sending his curls, and the snow in them, flying. John ran his hands through Sherlock’s hair, brushing away the last of the flakes. 

Instead of not reacting to this, like he had the first time, Sherlock leaned slightly into John’s hand and John smiled. He had spent so long wishing to run his hands through Sherlock’s hair, and now that he finally could he was going fully to enjoy it.

Heading upstairs, Sherlock sat down at his microscope and began examining the scrap of paper. John started reviewing his notes and drafting the beginning of his blog post for this case. After a while he got distracted and started staring out of the window. Snow had stopped actively falling but everything outside was covered in a light dusting. John knew it wouldn’t last long, it never did in London, and he could see the snow on the Speedy’s awning below already beginning to drip. 

They sat like that for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, Sherlock working on the case and John going between writing for his blog and staring out at the quickly melting snow. Across the street people were putting up Christmas lights and he watched as they struggled on their increasingly slippery surface. At one point Sherlock got up and gave John a kiss on the cheek. Later he called Lestrade to explain what he had figured out about the paper. “Yes, it has everything to do with the case!” John heard him yell. “Idiot,” he muttered as he hung up and plopped into his chair. 

“Did you solve it?” John asked from his place by the window. 

“Basically,” Sherlock said. “Her fingerprints revealed her identity. She works in government. I figured everything out after that but Lestrade doesn’t believe me. I don’t know why I help him if he’s not going to listen to me when I solve his cases for him.” 

“What am I supposed to tell my readers? That you examined a body, then sat around and figured it out in your mind palace?” John asked. 

“Don’t you go getting mad at me too,” Sherlock said. John got up to make tea and tousled Sherlock’s hair. 

“Are you done for tonight?” he asked. 

“Yes, I suppose I am.” 

“Good, we can out and enjoy the snow while it lasts then.” 

“What? I don’t want to,” Sherlock said, “come sit in my lap again.”

John laughed and shook his head, “No, we’re going.”

Sherlock signed. “Fine,” he said sulkily. They went downstairs and got their coats on. 

“Going out boys?” they heard Mrs. Hudson call as they were leaving. 

“Yes, we won’t be out too late,” John called back. They shut the door behind them and headed to the park to enjoy the snow.


	5. Day 5 - Christmas Movies

When John and Sherlock walked into St. Bartholomew's Hospital Thursday afternoon they were greeted by Mycroft, who was leaning against his umbrella.“So, you two are in a relationship now?” he asked and studied them with narrowed eyes.

“Disapprove big brother?” asked Sherlock tilting his head to one side and crossing his arms. 

John looked between them and frowned, “how do you even know that?” 

“Lestrade told him,” Sherlock answered before Mycroft could. Mycroft looked like he was going to deny it, but decided against protesting and remained silent. John raised his eyebrows and looked between them again. The two brothers seemed to be sizing each other up, though for what, John didn’t know. But before either could say anything more Molly bustled out, clutching a stack of paper to her chest, and smiled at them. 

“Great you’re all here. Come in please.” She led them into the morgue, where there was a cadaver stretched across a metal table. “Sherlock, you can get started whenever,” she said, gesturing to the body, “and Mycroft, I’m not really sure why you requested to be here, but you’re welcome to... um... help?” 

“Oh no, that’s fine,” said Mycroft resting his hands on top of his umbrella and making an expression as if he would rather pass a titanium kidney stone than take another step closer to the dead body. “I just needed to talk to my brother, and since he never responds to my texts,” Mycroft looked pointedly at Sherlock who barely spared him a glance before returning to the body he had begun examining, “I was forced to come here in person.”John was pretty sure he heard them both mutter “so immature,” under their breaths at the same time. 

“Well actually, I also had something I wanted to talk to the three of you about,” said Molly, “and Mycroft if you could pass this on to Greg,” John and Sherlock both turned to look at Mycroft, John in confusion, Sherlock with an expression of haughty triumph, before turning their attention to Molly. “I was thinking,” she said “that we could do a secret Santa this year.” 

Mycroft pursed his lips into a dignified frown and Sherlock looked at her blankly, but John smiled. Molly clasped her hands in front of her in expectant excitement, but seeing Sherlock’s blank look, continued. “You know, when you draw a name out of a hat and get that person a gift and we all-“

“He knows what a secret Santa is, Molly,” Mycroft interrupted. Molly look affronted and they stood, saying nothing, for a moment before Sherlock broke the silence. 

“No, I’m afraid I won’t be able to do that,” he said.

“Why not?” said John and Molly in unison. 

“Because I don’t want to,” he replied, and went back to leaning over the body. 

“Come on Sherlock, it’ll be fun,” said John, “and I’ll pick out your gift for you so you won’t even have to think.” 

“John that’s cheating,” said Molly, “Sherlock has to pick out his own present.” 

“Molly that’s not going to help your case,” John said. 

“Which is fine,” said Sherlock, “because I won’t be participating.” 

“Come on Mycroft, back me up in this,” said Molly, turning to the previously silent Holmes brother.

“I’m afraid that I, for once, am on my brother’s side. I have no desire to participate in your secret Santa.” John let out an exasperated breath. 

“Would you two stop being such grumpy arseholes and partake in this please?” Molly beamed at him and the two Holmes wore matching scowls. “I mean come on, it’s not that difficult. Very little of your precious brainpower will get used up.” Mycroft still looked unenthused but Sherlock looked up from the toes he had been inspecting and sighed. 

“Fine,” he said, “but whoever I get is not going to like their present.” 

Mycroft made a hmming noise and raised an eyebrow, “you’re getting soft in you relationship addled state, brother dear.” 

“Relationship addled state?” All of the blood drained out of John’s face as he watched Molly’s head snap up. 

Sherlock, who had gone back to inspecting the cadaver’s toes and hadn’t seen Molly’s reaction made a hmming noise of his own. “Yes, Mycroft is just here to pester me about me boyfriend.” In any other circumstance John would have done a happy dance at being referred to as Sherlock’s “boyfriend,” but look on Molly’s face stopped him. 

She was turning her head rapidly to look between Mycroft and Sherlock, he ponytail swinging back and forth. “What? Who?” He voice sounded slightly hoarse. 

“Um, me,” said John. Molly’s head snapped to a stop and she stared at him in disbelief. 

“You?” 

“Yes, we’ve been together about two months,” said John looking over at Sherlock, who had moved on from the body’s toes and was now closely analyzing its torso. Molly continued staring at him, her face getting extremely pale and her breathing becoming very shallow. “Here, sit down,” said John, moving to pull up a stool for her. 

“No, no. I don’t need to sit down. I just, I need to get some water I think.” She pushed open the door and left the morgue. When she was gone John turned to glare at the two brothers. 

“Was that really necessary?” he snapped. Mycroft had the decency to look a bit shamefaced but Sherlock continued his inspection of the corpse without a reaction. “I mean, must you two really be so mean to her? You,” he said, pointing at Mycroft “need to leave. And you,” he turned to Sherlock “need to apologize to Molly when she gets back.” 

Mycroft started to leave, but before he was fully out the door Sherlock called out “say hi to Greg for me.” 

“Now is not the time, Sherlock,” John snapped as Mycroft let the door slam behind him. They worked in silence for few minutes before Molly came back. Her eyes were a bit puffy, but she seemed otherwise composed. 

“I’m happy for you two,” she said after a moment. “I’m glad you have each other.” She say primly on the stool John had pulled out and folded her hands in her lap. John turned over to Sherlock and gave him an “apologize,” look. 

Sherlock cleared his throat and Molly look at him. “I apologize if we were insensitive Molly, I didn’t mean to hurt you feelings.” 

Molly smiled weakly and nodded. “It’s fine, I’m fine,” she said, “I hope you guys have a lovely... um, I don’t know, just, good for you I guess.” To John’s surprise, Sherlock was staring at her sympathetically. 

“Look, do you want to come over after work and watch a Christmas movie or something?” he asked her. Both Molly and John stared at him in amazement. 

“What?” said Molly. 

“I said, do you-“ 

“No, no, I know what you said. Yes please, I’d love to.” John smiled at her, still utterly confused by this sudden burst of apologetic sympathy in Sherlock. 

Sherlock bent over the body and gave it a final once over. “Great,” he said, “I’m done here if you want to come over now.” 

“Well I,” Molly looked around the morgue, “I’m still working, but all be done in about an hour.” 

“Right, of course,” Sherlock walked towards the door, “We’ll see you after that?” He pulled open the door for John as Molly nodded. “Excellent, goodbye,” he said and followed John out into the hallway. 

Once they got outside John stopped and turned to Sherlock and paused, giving him a puzzled look before continuing walking. “What was that all about? Inviting Molly over I mean.” 

“Well,” said Sherlock, “she clearly didn’t have any plans for tonight and she seems like the kind of person who would be sad about that sort of thing and you said to make her feel better, so I invited her over.” 

John stared at him in amazement, though not because Sherlock somehow knew about her lack of plans. “Mycroft’s right,” he said, “you are getting soft in your relationship addled state.” 

Sherlock shot him a glare. “Mycroft is not right,” he said. John laughed and jostled his shoulder affectionately. When they got back to their flat they puttered around for a little while, waiting for Molly. When she texted that she was finishing up with work Sherlock headed to the kitchen to make popcorn and John set up the movie. A few minutes later they heard a cab pull up outside followed by a knock at the door. Sherlock went downstairs to let Molly in and as they were coming back up the stairs John heard her laugh at something Sherlock had said. 

John shook his head and smiled. Whatever Sherlock may say, Mycroft was right. Ever since they had had gotten together, John had noticed Sherlock showing others his kinder, softer, side. The one he used to have reserved only for quiet moments when he was alone with John. 

Molly walked, laughing, through the door and sat down next to John. Sherlock followed close behind her and closed the door before plopping down on Molly’s other side. He reached around the back of the couch and let his hand rest of John’s shoulder for a moment, before nodding at the two of them and pressing play.


	6. Day 6 - Naughty vs Nice

Day 6 – Naught vs Nice 

“You don’t mean to tell me that in college you broke into a morgue and experimented on the dead bodies?” John exclaimed, his eyes widening in shock. Sherlock nodded, slightly sheepishly, and glanced around the room to see if anyone else had heard. They were having dinner at a new a Italian restaurant had opened up down the street from their flat when the revelation that Sherlock had illegally experimented on medical students’ cadavers in college came out. “Sherlock, that’s not allowed.” 

“Well I needed to know how spleens react to prolonged exposure to various chemical compounds.” 

John shook his head in amazement and disbelief, “and no one caught you?” 

“Obviously not,” said Sherlock, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table, placing his chin on the tips of his steepled fingers. His sheepish expression was gone, replaced by a curious grin, the one he got when he was determined to figure something out. “Alright, your turn,” he said, “I’m sure you got up to all sorts of terrible things at university.” John blushed slightly and leaned back in his chair.

“Nothing I did can compare to your level of law breaking.” 

“ _My_ level of law breaking? So there was some illegal activity in your formative years.” Sherlock leaned forward ever further, a dangerous glint in his eye. 

“No! Well, some. But nothing like what you did. Honestly Sherlock, I can’t believe you.” 

“Don’t make this about me, we’re talking about you now. Tell me, what sort of trouble did you and your mates get into?” 

John opened his mouth, maybe in shock, maybe to answer, but before he could say anything the waiter appeared with their food. He set a plate of Fettuccine Alfredo in front of Sherlock and Chicken Parmesan in front of John. “Anything else I can get you?” he asked. John shook his head, his nervous eyes never leaving Sherlock’s mischievous ones. 

After the waiter was gone he took a deep breath. “Well me and my mates TP’d my professor’s house once.” 

“Oh come on John, that’s nothing. I just admitted to breaking and entering.” 

“Alright fine, I once had a threesome in the library after hours.” 

Sherlock looked at him, his fork paused midway through twirling his pasta. “John,” his voice came out like a breath of air, “I’m scandalized.” It was John’s turn to look sheepish. He took a bite of his chicken, hoping that chewing would somehow slow his heart rate down. Instead he almost choked when Sherlock nudged his foot under the table and asked with a quirked eyebrow, “were there more guys or girls?” 

John coughed and took a sip of his water. To the other customers he probably looked like he was having some kind of fit. Hell, he was having some kind of fit. “Ok, that’s enough of that conversation,” he said. Sherlock’s eyebrows were raised in amusement. He never got very embarrassed or bashful about these things, and apparently John’s display of discomfort was amusing to him. 

John buried his face in his hands, shaking his head as Sherlock looked delightedly on. “I can’t believe I just admired to that,” he muttered into his palms. Sherlock twined his long fingers around his fork, wrapping his past into a neat swirl. 

“Oh it’s fine, we all have crazy stories from college. That girl over there,” he gestured to a college aged girl with his fork who was eating lasagne halfway across the restaurant, “is sleeping with her professor _and_ his wife.” 

“What? At the same time? Or separately? No don’t answer that. It’s Christmas, we’re supposed to be doing nice things this time of year, not prying into other people’s private lives.” 

“John by prying into people’s private lives we are doing nice things. Would that client we helped last week know what had happened to his wife without our prying? No, he wouldn’t. Therefore, what we do is nice. Our very profession puts us on the nice list or whatever.” 

John shook his head at Sherlock’s logic, but continued eating his Chicken Parmesan without arguing. “Speaking of nice,” he said after a moment, “I was thinking, it would be nice if we hosted a little Christmas party, like we did a few years ago. You know, with Molly and Mycroft and everyone. We could exchange our secret Santas then.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the mention of secret Santas but nodded. “Yeah, that would be fine,” he said. They continued their dinner and followed it with dessert. Halfway through their shared tiramisu Sherlock places his hand on top of John’s and let it rest there, his long slender finger fitting perfectly against John’s strong ones. John felt the soft tips of Sherlock’s fingers tracing patterns on the back of his hand, sending shivers up his spine. As they took the last bites of their tiramisu John wanted to kiss him in front of the entire restaurant, but he knew Sherlock wouldn’t like that, so he refrained. 

On the walk home they kept their hands in their pockets and walked with a bit of a gap between them, but John could feel the looks Sherlock kept shooting him and he couldn’t resist walking closely to Sherlock a few times, letting their shoulders brush for an instant. He made a game of it eventually, letting his shoulder bump against Sherlock’s, but skittering to the other side of the pavement when Sherlock looked over. He teased Sherlock with it the entire way home, refusing meet his eyes, but feeling a rush go through his body every time they touched. At one point when there was no one else on the street Sherlock reached out and grabbed him by the elbow, pulling him to his side and keeping him there, still looking straight ahead as he did so. 

When they got back to the flat they hung up their coats, but the mood had changed, becoming less playful and more fervent and urgent. John could feel the energy cackling between them as they climbed the stairs, like if he reached out and touched Sherlock he would feel an electric shock. He knew Sherlock could feel it too because as they made their way upstairs he heard a change in Sherlock, in the way he breathed and stepped. Like he was anticipating something. They didn’t touch and didn’t look at one another, but John could feel the air pulsing between them, could feel the tension mounting. 

John wanted to stop Sherlock on the landing and kiss him into oblivion right there, but fearing the ears of Mrs. Hudson, stopped himself. John could hear his own heart beating, it drowned out the sound of their steps, drowned out the sound of their breath, drowned out the sound of Sherlock turning the door handle to their flat. He pushed open the door, stepping through, and John followed him. 

As soon as the door shut behind John, Sherlock was on him, holding the back of John’s head in his hands and kissing him, hard, on the mouth. He pushed John up against the closed door and John gasped for air as Sherlock began trailing kisses from the corner of his mouth across his cheek. John slid his hands under Sherlock’s shirt, running them along his smooth torso and feeling his muscles ripple under his skin. He pressed his shoulders harder against the door, arching his back and exposing his throat. He wondered if Sherlock could feel his heart beating as he placed a kiss on John’s neck where one usually puts their fingers to check for a pulse. 

John felt slightly dazed as he unbutton the first few buttons of Sherlock shirt and kissed across his delicate collarbone. They’d done this before, but it had been different, Sherlock hadn’t been as natural and eager. He hadn’t been nervous exactly, but it was clear that he didn’t have much experience and he fumbled a bit, as people often did during their first times. But now Sherlock was smooth and instinctive, his hands traveling exactly where John wanted them to. 

“Sherlock,” John whispered as they made their way from the front door to the bedroom, “I thought we were on the nice list.” 

“Screw the nice list,” Sherlock said, pushing John onto the bed and kicking the bedroom door shut behind him.


	7. Day 7 - Candy Canes

“I bought you all candy canes,” Molly said brightly, pulling a bundle of candy canes out of a drawer in her desk. Sherlock and John were in her office at St. Barts, a tiny, dimly lit room near the morgue, along with Mycroft, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, who Molly has roped into joining the secret Santa after the movie at John and Sherlock’s flat. Molly had texted them all earlier that morning asking if they could meet to exchange secret Santa names. They now all stood in a small awkward circle in her office, each taking a candy cane from her outstretched hands. John watched Sherlock slide his into his pocket and noticed when Mycroft discreetly handed his to Lestrade while Molly’s back was turned. 

They each wrote their name onto individual pieces of paper before handing them to Molly, who mixed them up in a Santa hat. They passed the hat around the circle, each taking out a slip of paper. When the hat reached John he plucked out a folded paper and passed the hat to Mycroft, who was standing next to him. Upon opened the paper he saw Molly’s name written in flowery cursive. Once the hat had gotten all the way around the circle and returned to Molly she set it on her desk and smiled at them. “Well, that was all in need,” she said, “ but we should also probably figure out when and where we want to exchange gifts.” 

“Sherlock and I were thinking of hosting a Christmas party at our place,” John said, “we were thinking the 22nd? At 8? Does that work for everyone?” Mrs. Hudson and Molly both nodded and Mycroft and Lestrade pulled out their phones to check their calendars. They both nodded as well, verifying that they could make it. 

“Great,” said Molly, “if there isn’t anything else then I’ll see you all at John and Sherlock’s on the 22nd.” They thanked her before going their separate ways, Mycroft and Greg going down one hall, John, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson going down another. 

“Do you want to join us on our walk back to Baker Street?” John asked Mrs. Hudson as they headed down the elevator. 

“Oh no, thank you dear,” she said, “I’ve got errands to run, but I’ll see you boys later.” When they got outside they went in opposite directions. As John and Sherlock stared their long walk home Sherlock pulled his candy cane out of his pocket and bit open the plastic. 

“You shouldn’t do that,” said John, “it’s bad for your teeth.” 

“Yes Dr. Watson,” said Sherlock teasingly and popped the long end of the candy cane into his mouth. John pulled out his own candy cane and struggled with the thin layer of plastic for a minute before sighing and handing it to Sherlock, who grinned and obligingly bit open the plastic for him. John thanked him and put his own candy in his mouth. 

They walked along, sucking their candy canes and looking into shop windows, many of which were decorated with candy canes of their own, or some other form of assorted holiday paraphernalia. As they walked along, looking into shop windows, John though about what he was going to buy Molly, and everyone else, for Christmas and made a mental list of the ideas he got from the many window displays. 

His thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock, who stopped and stared, open mouthed, at something down the street. “What?” John asked, looking around at the many Londoners bustling around them, arms leaden with shopping bags, before realizing what Sherlock was staring at. A young girl was approaching them and as she got closer Sherlock called out to her. 

“Can I pet your dog?” The girl smiled and removed one of her earbuds. 

“Yeah, of course,” she said and told the dog to sit. After holding out his hand for the dog to sniff for a moment Sherlock handed John his candy cane and knelt down. 

“What’s their name?” John asked the girl as Sherlock began scratching behind the dog’s ears. 

“Annie,” the girl said. Annie, a brown and white English Springer Spaniel, was wagging her tail enthusiastically as Sherlock rubbed his hands along the sides of he face and neck. “Your boyfriend really likes dogs,” the girl remarked. 

John stared at her for a moment, his mind going completely blank. He couldn’t believe that after two months, this was the first time someone had mistaken them for a couple, but hadn’t been mistaken. John, who was so used to correcting people and insisting that they weren’t a couple, seemed to be experiencing some sort of error, like his brain needed rebooting. He shook his head, as if to knock all of his thoughts back into place, before smiling and nodding. “Yeah, he loves them. We can’t get one though, flat’s too small, so he pets everyone else’s.” 

The girl nodded sympathetically. In the meantime Sherlock had begun scratching under Annie’s chin and Annie rolled onto her side, tail still thumping in excitement. Everyone laughed at her enthusiasm and Sherlock obligingly rubbed her belly for a little while before standing. He thanked the girl, who smiled. “No problem,” she said. Sherlock retrieved his candy cane from John and they all said their goodbyes, Annie and the girl heading in one direction, John and Sherlock heading in another. 

They continued down London’s long winding streets, making their way back to their flat. When John got to the point in his candy cane where the long end had formed an extremely sharp spike he showed it to Sherlock. “Potential murder weapon?” he asked. 

Sherlock laughed and squinted at the sharped candy cane. “Yeah, you could definitely stab someone with that, or poison them. I’ve seen stranger.” 

“The Candy Cane Murders? Sounds like a good blog post.” 

“Or Death by Hershey Kiss. That would be interesting.” 

“The Adventure of the Peppermint Bark Plot.”

“Alright, this is getting a little out of hand,” said Sherlock giving him a sidelong look. 

They meandered along, discussing the many ways to kill someone using Christmas candy, and past cases with strange murder weapons, no doubt getting more than a few strange looks from passersby who happened to catch odd snippets of their conversation. 

As they got closer to Baker Street John’s candy cane slowly shrank, as did Sherlock’s, until they had only two small stubs left. By the time they got back the their flat they were almost entirely gone. John kicked off his shoes and settled into his chair to begin writing up a blog post about his and Sherlock’s lengthy discussion. Sherlock sat across from him, writing a blog post of his own. When John stretched out his legs Sherlock rested his feet on top of John’s, which was an odd, but somehow comforting gesture. They sat together quietly for the rest of the evening, whiling away the hours, enjoying one another’s silent company. Eventually the sun set outside and John got up to go to bed. As he did so, he gave Sherlock a goodnight kiss on the cheek, his breath smelling of candy cane.


	8. Day 8 - Sleigh Ride

Covent Garden was twinkling in the soft evening light. The Christmas lights had begun flickering on and the street was lit up with a golden glow. Sherlock and John walked along the street, surrounded by excited tourists, all swiveling their heads every which way to catch a glimpse of everything that London had to offer. John found them adorable, Sherlock found them annoying. They had just finished having dinner and seeing a movie, and were on their way back to Baker Street. “Good god, they’re everywhere,” said Sherlock, looking pointedly at the tourists. 

“They’re fine, they aren’t causing any problems,” John said, “stop being so grumpy.” 

Sherlock glanced over at John, giving him an incredulous look. John thought he looked majestic in this light. His hair caught in the brisk winter wind, his coat and scarf flapping in the breeze, his pale skin illuminated with a golden luster. When Sherlock saw how John was gazing at him his expression changed, becoming softer and more affectionate, instead of prickly and annoyed.

To John’s surprise, rather than continuing walking, Sherlock glanced around for a moment before pulling him into a previously hidden corner. Somehow, Sherlock had found a pocket of quiet darkness off the side of the bright, busy street. For a moment John could see the wave of people and the glow of the street lamps over Sherlock’s shoulder, before his view was blocked by Sherlock, who leaned in to kiss him. 

Just as suddenly as they had entered the little corner, they were kissing, Sherlock’s hands on the side of John’s face and John’s head titled up to meet his lips. John rose up onto his toes to reach Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock bent down, and they met in the middle, almost crashing into one another, Sherlock eager, and John still slightly disoriented, but happy to go along with this. Despite the cold winter air John was warm, with Sherlock’s body radiating heat as he pressed up against him. 

They kissed, hands tangled in each other’s hair, for several long moments before breaking away. “What in bloody hell was that, Sherlock?” John asked, slumping against the brick wall, his breathing still heavy. 

“I couldn’t resist with you looking at me like that, sorry,” said Sherlock, his own voice still thick with the residuals of the kiss. 

John laughed. “Don’t apologize,” he said standing up onto his tip-toes again to give Sherlock one last lingering kiss before grabbing his hand and pulling him back out onto the street. Once they were back out in the open John dropped Sherlock’s hand, but they remained close to one another, walking alongside each other, abnormally close together, stealing furtive glances every couple seconds, like they were children, sneaking around behind someone’s back. 

For several minutes as they walked John’s mind was entirely consumed by the images running through his brain of Sherlock pulling him into a dark corner and kissing him. But when they rounded the corner of the street John saw something else that made his heart do excited jumping jacks. Sitting across the street was a horse drawn carriage, the kind they gave tours to tourists in. He put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and pointed to the carriage. “Let’s take a carriage ride, he said, “come on Sherlock.” Before Sherlock could begin to protest John was dragging him across the road towards the carriage. 

“How much?” John asked the driver. The ride was colossally overpriced, but Sherlock sighed and appeased John by pulling out his wallet. John grinned up at him and the look that he gave Sherlock made it worth it. They climbed up into the back of the carriage and sat down, covering themselves with the fluffy red blanket that had been waiting in the seat. They were smushed together, the sides of their legs and shoulders pressed close against one another. Through his coat, John could feel Sherlock’s muscles relax as they leaned against one another and melted together, John fitting perfectly against Sherlock’s side. 

The horses took off, and with a slight jolt, the ride began. They gazed out together at the strings of lights and passing people, all bundled up in their warm winter coats talking on cell phones or with each other. The strings of lights all stood out golden and glowing against the sky now that the sun had fully set. Trees became invisible against the black night air and the lights wrapped around them looked like clusters of floating stars. 

As they drove along the driver chattered away, pointing out some of the more notable sites, but Sherlock and John, already familiar with London, tuned him out and instead listened to the sound of each other’s breathing and the jingling of the bells that were strung along the side of the carriage. Somewhere in the distance a group of people were singing “Silver Bells” and John smiled at the parallels between the song and this moment, feeling the magic of the holidays in the air around him.

John leaned his head against Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment and sighed contentedly, happy to have an excuse to be this close to Sherlock. But when Sherlock didn’t tense under the weight of John’s head on his shoulder John left it there, letting himself bask in Sherlock’s warmth. Instead of getting uncomfortable Sherlock turned his head to the side, resting his chin on top of John’s head and looking over him out onto the street below. 

The air was even colder now that they were moving at a more rapid pace, but pressed together in the back of the carriage, neither felt uncomfortable, temperature or otherwise. Tucked up against Sherlock, beneath a warm blanket, John felt like he could stay here forever, just enjoying the holiday atmosphere and the smell of Sherlock, a mixture of lab chemicals and expensive cologne. 

But alas, the ride ended eventually, thankfully closer to Baker Street than where it had began, and Sherlock extricated himself from under John’s cuddles to exit the carriage. John followed him, thanking the driver as he climbed from the carriage down to the road. He pet each of the horses before joining Sherlock on the side of the pavement. 

They left the carriage behind and continued on their way back home, only a few minutes walk away from their flat by the time the ride had ended. They walked the last stretch of road and arrived back at 221B Baker Street. When they stepped inside they took off their coats and hung them on the pegs by the door, but before John could start up the stairs Sherlock picked him up and slung him over his shoulder. “Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?” John said, almost loud enough to be shouting. His heart was pounding so hard in shock that John thought, not for the first time that night, that it might burst. He was caught between beating Sherlock’s back with his fists and laughing deliriously, and he ended up doing both. 

“Well someone apparently cannot walk, they need horse drawn carriages to take them home and their boyfriend to carry them,” John rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s quip about the carriage ride, “So I’m just doing my duty as your boyfriend and carrying you up the stairs.” He adjusted John into a more comfortable position on his shoulder. John had not asked to be carried, but now that he was in Sherlock’s arms he wasn’t complaining. 

Instead he giggled, slightly confused and delighted by the unexpected direction that this night had taken. Sherlock smiled to himself at John’s excitement. He had wanted to pick up John and carry him around for a while now. He had first got the idea a couple of months ago, before they were even a couple, and when John had asked to take a carriage ride Sherlock took it as an opportunity to make an excuses to carry John around. 

“I’m going to take this as an offer to carry me around everywhere from now on,” John told him. Sherlock smiled, totally fine with the prospect of carry John from place to place. His strong arms circled John’s waist as he mounted the first step and began carrying John, laughing, up the stairs.


	9. Day 9 - Snowman

When John looked out the window Monday morning, he was in for a big surprise. Overnight several inches of snow had been dumped over London. Outside the world was covered in a blanket of white. “Sherlock, come look at this,” he called. Sherlock meandered over slowly, coffee cup in hand, from his place in the kitchen. 

When he arrived he stood behind John and looked over his shoulder. “Oh my,” he said, “it appears to have snowed.” 

“Good god, you are slow in the mornings. Yes it snowed.” 

“I don’t suppose there’s anything else you wanted to show me?” Sherlock asked indignantly. 

“No,”

“Ok then,” Sherlock turned and went back to the kitchen, where his scrambled eggs were waiting. 

“Do we have any cases today?” John asked, sitting down across from him and opening the morning paper. 

“No,” said Sherlock, “but Mycroft is coming over later.” 

“What? Why?” John asked, looking up from his paper. 

“Oh you know, he’s always trying to get me to fix some government problem or another. I suppose some important papers have gone missing or something.” 

“So, we do have a case today?” 

“Not necessarily, I might not feel like helping him.” 

“Sherlock, in matters of national importance, it shouldn’t matter whether you feel like it.” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, “when have I ever done something I don't feel like doing. Besides, I’m not a fan of snow, I don’t want to go out in this weather.”

“Sherlock the weather should not dictate whether or not you protect you country.” 

“I don’t see why you’re getting so worked up over nothing, we don’t even know what Mycroft wants to talk to us about. Now, if you’re not going to read that paper, I will.” And without another word he stole John’s paper and continued eating his eggs. John rolled his eyes and continued with his own eggs. 

They whiled away the morning, waiting for Mycroft to arrive. When he did it was with an unhappy expression. He brushed off his shoulders in a dignified, yet annoyed, gesture. “I hate snow,” he lamented. “It gets everywhere and it’s entirely disgusting at this point, all the cars and dirt have turned it the most abhorrent shade of gray.” 

“Not enjoying the weather, are we Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, swinging into the living room and plunking down into his chair, his dressing gown swooshing behind him. 

Mycroft pressed his lips together into a prim frown and sat down on the couch, his back perfectly straight and not touching the couch cushions. “No, and if I remember our childhoods correctly you’re not a fan of it either. He refused to go out in it,” Mycroft said to John, “sat by the window and watched us make snowmen, refused to participate.” 

“So,” said Sherlock, interrupting Mycroft’s story, “who ran off with government papers this time?” 

“What? No, that’s not why I’m here,” Mycroft glanced nervously at John, which John found odd. All of Mycroft’s body language at the moment was odd. “I um, I came on a personal matter.” 

Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline, “a personal matter? Well this should be fun.” John gave him a kick from where he was sitting in his own chair and nodded a Mycroft to continue. 

Mycroft cleared his throat nervously and continued. “You see, you two are the only people I can think of who are in a situation similar to mine, so I need advice.” Sherlock looked as though he might say something maligned so John preemptively kicked him again. “My problem is Greg,” Mycroft said. 

“Inspector Lestrade, Greg?” John asked. 

“Yes, we’re in a relationship,” Mycroft said. 

“AH HA, I KNEW IT,” Sherlock shouted standing up from his chair. 

“Sherlock sit down and stop being an arse,” said John, “continue Mycroft.” 

Mycroft’s prim frown returned and he looked as his brother with an expression of resignation and displeasure, his discomfort at even being here palpable. “I have his name for secret Santa-“

“I also knew it!” Sherlock said, interrupting once again. This time it was John who stood up. He leaned over and whacked Sherlock of the back of the head before returning his attention to Mycroft. 

“And even if I didn’t have his name for secret Santa, I’d still have this problem. I want to get him something nice, but I have no idea what to give him. As Sherlock and our parents can attest,” he said to John, “I am terrible at giving gifts.” 

Sherlock nodded solemnly and placed his hands together in their position of prayer, as he did when he was thinking. “Well, get him something you know he’ll like, something related to an interest of his,” John said, “and nothing too flashy, you don’t want him to be embarrassed or intimidated.” Mycroft nodded, looking grateful but still incredibly uncomfortable at the fact that he was even asking this question.

“You know,” said Sherlock after a moment, and John was surprised to find that his tone wasn’t entirely mocking, “studies have shown that people feel closer to their partners when they are given gifts that remind the gift receiver of the gift giver. So if you two share a memory involving pumpkins or something, get him a gift with pumpkins on it.” 

“Actually,” said John, pointing at Sherlock, “that’s really good advice. Yeah, do that. Get him something involving pumpkins, or you two’s version of pumpkins.” 

“I’m sorry,” said Mycroft, looking between the two of them, “do two you have a memory involving pumpkins?” 

“No,” they said at the same time, which was a lie. As a matter of fact, their first kiss had been in a pumpkin patch. They’d been investigating a crime that had occurred there when it happened. 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow suspiciously, but didn’t press the matter further. “If you say so. Well, this has been a very instructive visit, thank you,” he said, standing, “I’d prefer if we didn’t acknowledge that this ever happened, if that’s ok with you.” 

“Sure, that’s fine,” said John. Mycroft looked at Sherlock, who nodded. 

“Yes, I won’t tell anyone you’re a horrible gift giver and a desperately hopeless boyfriend,” he said. 

John kicked him a final time and smiled at Mycroft. “Ignore him,” he said. When Mycroft was gone John turned to Sherlock. “You’ve never made a snowman?” he asked. Sherlock shook his head and John stood. “Ok, we’re going to rectify that,” he said, “get your coat.” 

Sherlock frowned. “You already made me go out last time it snowed,” he said. 

“Come on Sherlock, we’ve got nothing to do today and if we sit around here you’ll get bored and start setting things on fire.” 

“Hmm, that’s true. Fine I’ll come, but we’re just making a snowman, nothing else.” They put on their shoes, grabbed an old scarf and hat, a carrot, and some string and buttons, for lack of coal, and headed downstairs. After getting their coats on they went out, walking to Regent’s Park nearby. When they found an empty spot, with untouched snow, John stopped. Mycroft had been right, most of the snow was already ruined by cars and people walking, but they’d found a nice patch of clean snow near the lake. 

John leaned down and packed a ball of snow in his hands. “What are you doing?” said Sherlock, “I only agreed to make a snowman, I did not agree to a snowball fight.” 

“First of all,” said John, laughing, “snowball fights are rarely agreed upon before hand. Second of all, this is how you make a snowman. Here, do what I’m doing,” Sherlock leaned down suspiciously and copied John’s snowball, seeming less defensive now that he had a weapon of his own, should he need it, Sherlock followed John’s lead and added more snow to his ball, until eventually it was big enough to roll along the ground, getting bigger and bigger, until eventually John and Sherlock had the bottom and middle portions of the snowman. 

“Ok, now set yours on top of mine,” said John, indicating to Sherlock’s ball of snow, “carefully, don’t drop it.” 

“Yes, I’m not an imbecile, John.” John rolled his eyes and watched as Sherlock carefully placed his ball onto top of the larger ball of snow John was standing next to. John then made the head while Sherlock went off looking for branches to use as the arms. When they had the snowman fully assembled they added the string, carrot, and buttons to make his face and adorned him with the hat and scarf. 

“He looks at little sad,” said John, stepping back to assess they’re handiwork. Sherlock, who was standing behind John, wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders and rested his chin on the top of his head.

“It’s the string mouth,” said Sherlock, “it’s puny.” 

“Yeah, best we can do I guess. He’s cute though.”

“Yeah, he’s really cute, now can we please go home where it’s warm.” 

John laughed, “yeah, come on.” He leaned against Sherlock for a moment, before stepping out of his arms and walking alongside him back home.


	10. Day 10 - Snowed In

“Transportation systems have been shut down all over London, causing massive delays across the region,” the newscaster was saying in his slightly monotone drawl. Sherlock, John, and Mrs. Hudson were huddled around the TV, watching the morning news report. Outside a white blur was obscuring their view, so that all they could see was snow, pouring from the sky. 

“Well, doesn’t look like we’ll be going anywhere today,” said Sherlock snapping the TV off when the commercials came on. 

“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Hudson, looking fretfully out the window, “I don’t know what we’re going to do with this weather.” 

“It’s fine Mrs. Hudson,” said John, “it’ll clear up eventually.” 

“I know dear,” she said, standing to go back downstairs, “I just hope it doesn’t kill my tomato plants in the process.” 

When she was gone Sherlock signed, “I have very little hope for those tomato plants.”

John hmmed in agreement. 

“Well, if we aren’t going anywhere today I’m going back to bed.” Sherlock said standing abruptly from his chair and going back to the bedroom. A few moments later John heard him flop into bed. He puttered around for a few minutes, making coffee and breakfast. But when, midway through his toast, he yawned and felt his eyelids begin to droop, he decided to join Sherlock and get some extra sleep. 

Walking into the bedroom, he laid down next the Sherlock, who was already dozing, and tried to fall asleep. At some point, Sherlock, who usually sleeps flat on his stomach, rolled over, nearly knocking John off the bed. John pushed him back over to his side and curled up against his back, letting Sherlock’s body heat serve as a human radiator to keep him warm. 

They pulled the blanket back and forth a few times before settling into a comfortable middle ground where the blanket was somehow pulled up past Sherlock’s chin, but only covering John’s feet, which was all he needed. He began to nod off, lulled by the soft sound of Sherlock’s breathing and the dull white noise of the storm outside. 

They napped like that for a while, pressed against one another like nesting dolls, John’s chin fitting perfectly against Sherlock’s shoulder. The morning hours slipped quietly away, with only a whisper of shared breath, and when John blinked awake a few hours later the snow outside hadn’t stopped, but it was lighter and the sound it made was less of a dull roar, and more of a quiet pattering. He stayed tucked against Sherlock for some time, sleepily enjoying the peace and quiet. 

He felt like he was in a cocoon, a small pocket of warm safety, hidden away from the stormy word outside. Mrs. Hudson had the radio on downstairs, playing the old music John’s mother used to play and it, along with the smell of the bread she was baking, drifted upstairs to John and added to his sense of security, reminding him of home. It was the smell of bread that ended up waking Sherlock as well, who lifted his head suddenly but groggily and took a deep breath, saying “is that bread?” 

“Yeah, I think Mrs. Hudson is baking,” John murmured. 

“Oh,” said Sherlock, putting his head back down on the pillow they were sharing, “my mother used to play this song all the time.” 

John smiled and buried his face in Sherlock’s hair. “So did mine.” 

Sherlock rolled over to face him, their faces pressed close together and John gave him a quick kiss before humming the chorus as it came on. Sherlock smiled and gazed sleepily at him, whispering some of the words. They laid facing each other, noses and foreheads pressed together, until the song ended and John got up to look out the window at the snow. It had slowed and from the living room window he could almost see the building across the street. “Has it gotten any lighter?” Sherlock called, appearing in the hallway, swathed in his silken maroon dressing gown, his hair lightly tousled. 

“Yeah,” John called over his shoulder. Sherlock went into the kitchen to check on his experiments and John settled into his chair and opened his computer. He started typing away at yet another blog post and after a few minutes Sherlock came up behind him, gave him a kiss on the cheek, handed him a mug of tea, and sat down in his chair across from John. He picked up a book and began flipping through it and they settled once again into the quiet enjoyment of each other’s company. Just like the morning, the afternoon slipped by, the hours slowly dragging their feet as they marched by. 

For a long time the only sound was the sound of the snow hitting the roof, the clock ticking on the mantle, and the synchronized breathing of John and Sherlock, occasionally interrupted by the sound of a page turning. The snow seemed to have muffled the entire world and the usual sounds of car horns and people talking on cell phones had died away, leaving only the sounds contained within the little world of 221B Baker Street. 

John got up after a few hours and headed into the kitchen. He opened the fridge for a snack, but realized it was somehow already dinner time an called out to Sherlock, asking if he wanted some soup. “Sure, yes please,” Sherlock called back and John walked to the pantry to pull out a can of vegetable soup. He heated it over the stove and, when it was warm, poured a bowl for himself and a bowl for Sherlock. 

He grabbed spoons and headed back to living room where Sherlock had set his book facedown on the armrest and was waiting, knees tucked up to his chin, for John. John handed his bowl and sat back down, cross legged, in his chair. They ate their soup and John updated him on how the blog was going. Sherlock, after checking his phone, realized he had missed several calls from his parents and texts from Mycroft saying “mum and dad are worried, call them please.” And a few minutes later “call them goddamn it!” 

He stepped into the hall to call his parents and reassure them that he hadn’t been buried under a snowdrift somewhere. John listened amusedly from his place in the living room and when Sherlock got back he laughed at the expression on his face. “One snowstorm and they think England is falling,” Sherlock muttered and John grinned. 

He flicked on the TV, where the news was still playing, and turned his attention to the newscaster. There were still delays all across London and the surrounding areas and people on Twitter were having a meltdown. “Christ, England is falling,” John said, “we cannot deal with weather in this country can we?” 

“Nope,” said Sherlock, “extreme heat, we all panic. Lots of snow, we all panic. All we can handle is rain.” They glanced out the window, where the snow had stopped falling, but there were piles of it everywhere. They continued with their soup and slowly the sun set outside. They stayed where they were late into the night as the world turned into a winter wonderland around them.


	11. Day 11 - How are you not freezing?!

England had gone back to its usual rainy self overnight and turned the snow that had trapped John and Sherlock inside yesterday into slush. The streets of London, gray as ever, were now filled with watery, half melted snow. Cars raced past, sending up waves of the stuff onto passersby. John peered out of the window to see a dreary city, no more hospitable than it had been yesterday. His breath clouded on the window, blocking his view. He turned away and headed to the kitchen to get himself a cup of tea and some breakfast. 

As he was sitting down to eat Sherlock swayed in, seeming slightly bleary, as he often did in the mornings. “Is that for me?” he asked as he picked up John’s plate, and with it, John’s uneaten toast, and plopped into his chair. John rolled his eyes and got up to make himself some more breakfast. No use fighting with Sherlock in the morning. “Do you have to be at the hospital today?” Sherlock called. 

“No, why?” 

“Lestrade called, said there was a body for us to come look at later.”

John turned to look at Sherlock “Wait when?” 

“Just now, I told him if we could get out of our flat we would come. It appears we can, so I suppose we will.” 

“I’m sorry, Lestrade just called to say he needed your help solving a murder and you’re sitting there eating toast?” 

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Sherlock genially. 

John spluttered in amazement, first of all this was so out of character for Sherlock, who usually hurtled over all of the usual human necessities to get straight into solving crimes, and second of all, there was a body that needed inspecting! “Well, shouldn’t we be heading out then?” 

“John, I’m still in my pajamas.” 

“Well go change then, we need to go!” Sherlock sighed and got up from his chair. 

“Don’t eat my toast,” he said, pointing at John before heading into the bedroom. John leaned over and took a bite of his toast. 

Ten minutes later they were on the street, Sherlock with half eaten toast in hand. He hailed a cab with his free hand and slid into the back seat. John climbed in next to him and leaned forward to give the driver directions. When they arrived fifteen minutes later at the scene of the crime Lestrade and Anderson are waiting for them. As Sherlock gots out of the cab Anderson stepped forward and opened his mouth to breif him on the case, but before he could get a word out Sherlock had brushed by him. “Yes, I know, shut up,” he said. 

John smiled apologetically before paying the cab driver and joining Sherlock by the body. It was a middle-aged woman laying facedown in a snowbank, glittering shards of broken window scattered around her. John stood next to Sherlock and as he bent down John took a deep sniff. “Did you use my shampoo?” 

“John, how is that relevant right now?” John frowned and Sherlock resumed examining the body, who seems to have fallen, or been pushed, from the inside of a shop window onto the street outside. According to Lestrade, who brought John up to date on the case as Sherlock analyzed the body for clues, the shop itself had also been burgled and there were several valuable items missing.

John shivered in the cold air and pulled his coat closer to himself. Sherlock’s coat however, was falling open as he leaned over the body. John stood by him, opening his notebook to take notes, and noticed that his coat wasn’t buttoned at all. “How are you not freezing?” he asked. 

Sherlock shrugged, “temperature affects me less, I guess.” 

“Sherlock, that’s not possible.” Sherlock shrugged again, consumed entirely by his work. 

“Mycroft’s the same way,” said Lestrade, who was standing next to him, “he never gets cold.”

“I know right,” John said, “they’re like human space heaters.” John looked over at him, “so you two are in a relationship know,” he said in the same way Lestrade had said when Sherlock had appeared with his arm around John’s shoulder. 

“Yeah,” said Lestrade, “I guess we’re both dating a Holmes brother now.” 

“I guess we are.” Lestrade nodded and went off the check in with the other investigators. They all worked in silence, John and Sherlock by the body, Lestrade, Anderson, and the other investigators examining the scene of the crime. Eventually Sherlock called Lestrade over to explain his theories and deductions and Lestrade nodded along, John scribbling his notes as Sherlock talked. 

When Sherlock was finished talking he promised to follow up on a few theories and get back to Lestrade. “Come on, John,” he said, turning away from Lestrade. John followed him down the street and they walked quietly for a moment before John realized they weren’t headed back towards Baker Street. 

“Um, where are we going?” he asked. 

“To get some chips,” Sherlock said, “I need to think.” They walked for some time, passing several good places to get chips, which John pointed to confusedly. Sherlock blew past them, not even looking up when John pointed them out, and stopped, several streets later, in front of a small grimy restaurant. 

When they got inside John was overwhelmed by the smell of grease and beer. Sherlock stepped confidently up to the counter and ordered some chips. John, still confused, sat down at small slimy table while Sherlock struck up a conversation with the man, well, kid really, behind the counter. He seemed friendly at first, questioning the greasy haired teenager about how he came to work at the shop. 

“Well, my dad owns it,” the kid said, “I don’t really get a choice.” 

Sherlock’s tone shifted suddenly. “And where is your dad now?” 

The kid, picking up on Sherlock’s abrupt change in character, narrowed his eyes. “Why should I tell you?” he asked. 

“Because,” Sherlock leaned forward and whispered something in the kid’s ear. John watched the boy’s face go white as a sheet and when Sherlock leaned back he pointed numbly to a door at the back of the shop and looked nervously at John. John furrowed his brows and watched Sherlock push through the door, leaving him and the kid in silence. After a few minutes the kid dropped a paper plate of chips in front of John. 

“He said to give these to you,” he said. John nodded and continued waiting, eating a few chips as the minutes ticked by. At one point he heard raised voices coming from behind the door, but they were too muffled to understand. Both John and the kid looked at the door, then at each other. A few moments later Sherlock appeared, leading a tall burly man, who looked like a larger, less weedy version of the kid behind the counter, by the shoulder. He steered the man into a seat a few tables away from John. 

A couple more minute passed and a police car appeared outside. The boy’s eyes widened as Lestrade stepped out and entered the restaurant. He put the man in handcuffs and led him out to the car, the man barely protesting. “What the fuck dude,” the kid said, turning to Sherlock. 

“I’m sorry kid,” John said, knowing Sherlock wouldn’t say it himself. 

“No. I mean, thank you, honestly. But what the fuck?” 

Lestrade stepped back into the restaurant and began explaining what had happened to the boy. Sherlock and John took this as their cue to leave and pushed out of the restaurant, back onto the street, Sherlock with his unbuttoned coat flapping in the breeze.


	12. Day 12 - Christmas Cookies

“No John do not touch that,” Sherlock said, reaching out and nearly sending John toppling over as he pushed him away from the set of test tubes John had been reaching for. They were cleaning up the kitchen, a thing that had never happened before, to make Christmas cookies. And by cleaning, what they were really doing was taking all of the beakers and pipettes that had migrated to the counter and shoving them back onto the table in the center of the room where Sherlock kept the majority of his scientific equipment. 

The test tubes in question held a strange green liquid that John couldn’t identify, so when Sherlock shouted at him not to touch it, John listened and put his hands in his pockets obediently. Sherlock cautiously picked up the test tubes, careful not to inhale too deeply, and set them on the table next to his microscope. When they finished moving all of the things that had spilled over onto the counters back onto the table John wiped the counter down with a kitchen towel, cleaning up the various chemical and food stains. 

“Christ this is disgusting,” he said, scrubbing at a particularly obstinate spot. When he found the cleanliness of the counter satisfactory he tossed the kitchen towel into then rubbish bin and pulled out the cookbook they had found stashed in an upper cupboard. Sherlock flipped it open to the page with a recipe for sugar cookies and began directing John, telling him what ingredients to get out. “Why do I have to do all the work,” John grumbled as he pulled out the flour from a high cabinet. “You’re the tall one anyway.” 

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise as he continued perusing the recipe. John pulled out the last of the ingredients and set them on the counter next to Sherlock. “Wait a minute,” Sherlock said, looking up from the directions, “the dough has to go in the refrigerator for two hours.” 

“Um, yeah,” said John, “at least if you want shapes. If you’re fine with just circles it doesn’t have to be refrigerated.” 

Sherlock let out an annoyed huff of breath, “well you made me buy those stupid holiday cookie cutters, so we might as well do the shapes option. I didn’t realize we were going to have to wait two hours for our cookies though.” 

John laughed at his annoyed confusion and pulled the cookbook across the counter over from Sherlock who was glaring at it darkly. He leaned over the book, read the first step and pushed the sugar and butter at Sherlock. “Beat these together with that,” he said indicating to the stand mixer Mrs. Hudson had lent them. Sherlock obeyed and carefully measured out the two ingredients out into the bowl, his scientific precision shining through. 

When the butter and sugar were sufficiently mixed together Sherlock reached a long ivory-colored pinky into the mix and scooped up a clump, popping it into his mouth. “Oh my god Sherlock that is disgusting,” John said, watching and processing in slow motion what Sherlock had just done. 

“No, it’s kind of good, try some,” said Sherlock, tilting the bowl towards John. 

“It’s literally just butter and sugar,” John said, “I can’t believe you just-“ but he was cut off by Sherlock, who suddenly swept over and grabbed John by the waist, pulling him into a kiss. John leaned in and tilted his head, disgust melting away slightly as their mouths opened and John tasted the sugar on Sherlock’s lips transfer to his. He felt the sweet granulated morsels dissolving on his tongue and resisted the urge to moan in pleasure. He felt Sherlock smile against his lips at his obvious enjoyment. “You are the worst,” John muttered when he pulled away. But it was with a tiny grin that he pushed the flour, baking soda, and salt toward Sherlock and instructed him to sift them together in a separate bowl. 

As Sherlock sifted the flour John added milk and eggs to the butter and sugar. Once he finished sifting together the dry ingredients Sherlock handed to bowl to John, who slowly added it to the bowl of milk and eggs and bitter and sugar. Together they peered onto the bowl as the mixer turned the concoction into the recognizable form of dough. “Now would be the normal time to steal some of the dough,” John said, shutting off the mixer. 

Sherlock smiled, pressed a kiss to John’s temple, and reached into the bowl once more, pulling out a clump, which he broke into two pieces. He handed one to John and put the other in his mouth, letting out a euphoric sound similar to the one John had nearly made earlier. When they finished their stolen morsels of dough John pulled out the cling film. “Alright, the dreaded two hours,” he said, forming the dough into a ball and wrapping it in the cling film. 

“Whatever should we do with all our extra time?” Sherlock asked in a jokingly despairing tone. 

John put the dough in the fridge and walked over to stand in front of Sherlock. “I have a few ideas,” he said, standing onto his tip-toes to kiss Sherlock. Sherlock laughed, throwing his head back and placing his hand in John’s hair. John trailed kisses down Sherlock’s neck and they moved from the kitchen to while away the hours.

When John looked at the clock some time later he realized just how quickly the time had gone by and got up to preheat the oven, leaving Sherlock drowsing lazily. Sherlock wandered in a few minutes later, his hair tousled and his dressing gown thrown over his untucked shirt and trousers. John smiled at him, standing barefoot in the doorway of the kitchen, the late afternoon sun giving him a golden glow. 

John pulled the cold dough out of the fridge and placed it one the counter, the two hours it needed to chill, up. Sherlock pulled out the rolling pin and sprinkled flour on the counter. When John unwrapped the dough from its cling film he placed it on the light layer of flour and lightly shoved Sherlock’s shoulder. “Go get our stupid cookie cutters,” he said, echoing Sherlock’s earlier insult of the shaped cookie cutters. He began rolling out the dough and Sherlock arrived a few moments later to dump a pile of tin snowmen, snowflakes, Christmas trees, and other assorted holiday shapes next to him. When John was finished they both began cutting the dough into shapes, Sherlock preferring the snowflake shape and John going for the Christmas tree. When the dough was cut out and placed onto trays John slide them into the oven and set the timer. 

Sherlock cleaned up the flour from rolling out the dough and John made the icing while they waited for the cookies to bake. When the timer dinged Sherlock pulled the cookies out and set them on the cooling rack while John separated the icing into smaller bowls and began dripping food coloring into them. When Sherlock saw what he was doing he came over and raised a critical eyebrow at John’s handiwork. “Here, let me do that,” he said, taking the bottle of red dye from John’s hand, and somehow, with his scientific exactness, made a set of brighter icings than John ever could have. 

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s perfectionism and cleared a space where they could decorate the cookies. Sherlock picked up one of his snowflakes and began icing it with a precise hand. John picked up a cookie of his own and began icing it. When he finished he pushed it towards Sherlock with his finger. “Look Sherlock, don’t eat the yellow snow,” he had iced a snowman with yellow icing.

Sherlock looked at him with disgust. “You are a child,” he said, but John could see him fighting back a grin. He laughed and it was Sherlock’s turn to roll his eyes. He bent back over his snowflake and continued tracing artistic blue lines through the white icing. 

“Christ, how are you so perfect?” John said, leaning over and stealing a glance at Sherlock’s perfectly symmetrical and beautifully designed snowflake cookie. Sherlock shrugged, not looking up from his cookie and John started on a Christmas tree shaped cookie. When they were done Sherlock moved on to a Christmas tree that would eventually get an incredibly detailed set of ornaments and John picked up a snowflake. They continued, silently bent over their cookies, and when they were done they had a collection of some uncommonly beautiful cookies and some incredibly messily decorated cookies. 

Surveying their work, Sherlock picked up an astonishingly detailed snowflake, and John followed suit. They each took a bite and sighed in unison, savoring the taste of the sugar, not for the first time that day. They shared a smile and sat at their table, surrounded by cookies and scientific equipment. John gazed at Sherlock and Sherlock, catching him looking, leaned over and kissed his forehead before continuing his cookie. John leaned against his shoulder and ate his own cookie, enjoying the silent company of the person he loved most.


	13. Day 13 - Sick

When John woke up he noticed that Sherlock, who was laying next to him, had a slight sheen of sweat on his face and was looking incredibly uncomfortable. He furrowed his brow in concern, but got out of bed and went to the kitchen without disturbing him. He made coffee and breakfast and sat down at the table, opening his laptop to work on a blog post. He typed for sometime before glancing up at the clock in the upper corner of his screen and realizing Sherlock was still in bed. Even for Sherlock, who was never an early riser, sleeping this late was unusual. He went back into the bedroom, where Sherlock had rolled from his stomach into a ball on his side. Beads of sweat were dripping down his forehead and his cheeks looked red, as though he’d been running. 

John bent down beside him and placed the back of his hand on Sherlock’s forehead. Realizing that Sherlock was burning up, he gently shook Sherlock by the shoulder to wake him. Sherlock blinked awake slowly, a sharp contrast to his usual very sudden transfers between sleeping and waking. When he saw John standing over him looking worried he turned his head, looking around to see what was the matter, before realizing it was him that John was concerned about. 

He had a burn in the back of his throat and he sat up, leaning past John to cough into his elbow. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and laid back down onto his pillow. “How are you feeling?” John asked, furrowing his brow and placing a hand once again of Sherlock’s forehead. 

Sherlock took a deep breath, as if testing out his newly weakened lungs. “How do you think John?” he asked. “Like death,” he threw a melodramatic hand over his brow. John shook his head, too concerned to be truly annoyed, but not surprised that illness seemed to enhance Sherlock’s already dramatic nature. He frowned, sitting down beside Sherlock on the bed. 

“Do your joints or muscles feel achy?” he asked, trying to establish if was just a cold, or something worse. 

“Yes, yes. Aches and pains, a headache, sudden onset, chills, I assume I have a fever, coughing. I have the flu John.” 

John sighed at Sherlock’s self diagnosis, but knew that he was probably right, so he stood. “Alright, I’m going to get you some water,” he said, “you need to drink lots of fluids today. And don’t get out of bed, you need to rest.” 

Sherlock smiled at John’s sudden transformation from concerned boyfriend to assured doctor and obeyed, settling into the pillows that John had begun placing behind his head to prop him up. When John was satisfied that Sherlock was in a comfortable position he went to the kitchen and put the kettle on before filling up a glass of water. 

When he had the water, he went back to the bedroom and handed Sherlock the glass. Sherlock took a sip and set it on his bedside table. “I’ve put the kettle on,” John said, “some lemon and ginger tea is in order. When that’s done I’m going to go out and getting you some medicine.” 

Sherlock smiled up at him. “I would kiss you, but,” he gestured up and down at his body, “pathogens.” John smiled down in turn, gazing at Sherlock from his place standing above the bed, but hurried off when he heard the kettle begin to whistle. He came back with a piping mug of tea, the scents of lemon and ginger drifting up in the steam. He handed the mug to Sherlock, who took it lightly with the tips of his fingers, careful not to be burned. He blew delicately over the surface of the drink before taking a small sip and setting it next to his water to cool. 

John smoothed Sherlock’s hair back from his forehead and squeezed his hand before heading downstairs. As he was getting his coat on Mrs. Hudson came out and saw him. 

“Going out?” she asked him. 

“Just to the pharmacy,” he said, “Sherlock woke up with the flu.” 

“Oh dear,” she said, “I suppose it is that time of year, isn’t it?” 

John nodded, “could you make sure he doesn’t do anything crazy while I’m out please.” 

She sighed, “yes. Though when have I ever had the power to stop Sherlock doing something crazy?” 

“You have more power than you think Mrs. Hudson,” John said, placing his hand on the doorknob and pulling open the door, “and just tell him he’ll have Dr. Watson to answer to if he tries anything.” Mrs. Hudson laughed and John left, walking to the nearby pharmacy. 

When he got back, plastic bag full of Tylenol and other supplies in hand, Sherlock was still in bed and Mrs. Hudson was sitting at the table. “He asked me to bring him his portable chemistry set on a tray,” she said, “I told him that wouldn’t be happening.” 

John laughed and rubbed a hand over his forehead. “Taking care of him over the next few days is going to be a real treat,” he said. 

“I don’t envy you dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, standing, “best of luck.” She went back downstairs and John headed into the bedroom where Sherlock was hidden behind a large newspaper. When he heard John enter he dropped it, letting the pages spill widely across his lap. 

“She won’t let me have my chemistry set,” Sherlock said. 

“You don’t need your chemistry set, you need to rest,” said John, feeling his forehead to see if his fever had changed. “Feeling any better?” he asked. 

“No.” There was a pause, before he sighed, “the tea helped.” 

“Good, I’m going to get you some orange juice, you need lots vitamin c, and refill your water glass. Here’s some Tylenol,” he said, pulling out the box and handing it to Sherlock, who began to open it. John went to the kitchen to get him the orange juice and when he got back Sherlock had resumed reading his paper. He took the cup without a word and John went into the living room to continue writing his blog post. 

A couple hours had passed and John heard Sherlock shuffling around and bit, but mostly the flat was quite. Eventually he got up to check on Sherlock. When he walked in he saw that Sherlock had thrown the newspaper aside and was tossing his pink ball against the wall across from him. “I’m bored John,” Sherlock said, catching the ball when it bounced back and dropping it into his lap. 

“Do you want something to read?” 

“No, boring.” 

John sighed, “is every suggestion I make going to be boring?” 

“Most likely.” 

“Ok, well I’m going to make you some soup and if you think of something that isn’t boring let me know.” 

“Oh I can think of several things that aren’t boring,” Sherlock said. 

John raised an eyebrow at his expression. “If you think of something reasonable, let me know.” He went back to the kitchen and poured a can of chicken noodle soup into a pot on the stove. When it was heated he transferred the soup into two bowls and brought it, along with a chair, into the bedroom. He handed one of the bowls to Sherlock and positioned the chair in the corner furthest from Sherlock to avoid getting sick himself. 

Settling into the chair he and Sherlock both took up their spoons to have their meal. They ate quietly and when John finished he looked up to see Sherlock’s eyes drooping. He got up and took the bowl from Sherlock. Taking the bowls back to the kitchen, he rinsed them off in the sink. When he came back, Sherlock had nodded off to sleep and John resisted the urge to lean down and kiss him on the cheek. Instead he gathered up the collection of cups and mugs that had accumulated on Sherlock’s bedside table, shut off the bedroom light, and left Sherlock to rest and regain his strength.


	14. Day 14 - You're a Mean One Mr. Grinch

Day 14 - You’re a Mean One Mr. Grinch 

Throughout the night, John was kept up less by the sound of Sherlock coughing, and more by the newly uncomfortable and unfamiliar feeling of sleeping alone in a cold bed. He had moved back to his old bedroom, and room he’d barely been in these past few months, that night since Sherlock was sick and highly contagious. When he’d entered the first thing he had noticed was the thin coating of dust over everything. It was a conspicuous reminder of how he, and almost everything he owned, had migrated from his room to Sherlock’s, where he now slept every night. 

When he finally rose in the morning, after a long night of restless tossing and turning, the sun was filtering through the thin curtains, sending shafts of light across the room, illuminating the dust particles floating in the air. John sighed and sat up, downstairs he could hear Sherlock moving around in the kitchen. 

He swung his legs around and sat on the side of his bed for a moment, rubbing his eyes, then casting one last look around the room before standing and going downstairs. When he walked into the kitchen Sherlock sprang away from his microscope, which he had been leaning over. John ran he hands through his hair sleepily and frowned. “What were you doing?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Mhm, yeah right. Sherlock, I’m not your mother and I can’t stop you from doing whatever you want, but as your boyfriend and your unofficial doctor, you need to rest.” Sherlock let out a huff of breath and sat down heavily on his chair. 

“Yes, yes, you’re right,” he said, shoulders drooping in annoyance and disappointment. John ruffled his hair sympathetically and got out the oatmeal to start making breakfast. Sherlock stayed on his stool and watched him, casting longing glances between him and his microscope, not sure which he missed more. Not getting to use his microscope and not getting to kiss his boyfriend were his two greatest nightmares. 

John set a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of orange juice in front of him a few minutes later and they ate their breakfast together, John drinking an orange juice of his own in solidarity. Sherlock picked up the newspaper and began perusing the crime section. “Christ,” he muttered, “I’m out of commission for two days and all of London goes to hell in a hand basket.” 

“I’m sure Lestrade will be pounding on our door soon, begging you to come back to work. Speaking of which, are you feeling much better?” John reached over and touched his forehead to see if his fever had broken. It had and John sighed in relief.

Sherlock nodded, “I still feel a bit achy, but otherwise, I think I’m doing better.” 

John shook his head. “Don’t exaggerate your well-being so you can get back to work sooner,” he said, pointing his fork at Sherlock, “no one recovers from the flu that fast. Though you do seem to be healing remarkably quickly.” 

Sherlock smirked and stretched his arms above his head, nestling his hands behind his head, “I’ve had a good doctor,” he said. 

The corner of John’s lip quirked in amusement. “I suppose you have,” he said, “but really, how are you?” 

“Alright fine, I’m achy, and my throat hurts like hell, and I still feel like I might drop dead at any minute, but I really do feel much better, compared to yesterday.” 

“Ok, you still need to get a lot of rest, and I’m going to get you some salt water to gargle.” 

“What? Ew, why?” 

“It’ll make you’re throat feel better,” said John, standing and taking their empty oatmeal bowls to the sink. He pulled out the salt and a glass while Sherlock crossed his arms and pouted in protest. After filling the glass with water from the tap and measuring out the salt, he poured the salt into the water, stirring and watching it dissolve before handing it to Sherlock who took it reluctantly.

He glared at it combatively, as if it were an enemy to beat and quickly took a swig, throwing his head back to gargle before spitting the water back into the glass. It had been one fluid motion and when he was finished he held the glass away from his body in revulsion. John, who was much less easily disgusted, took the glass from him and dumped it in the sink. 

“That was supposed to make me feel better, not worse,” Sherlock said. 

“It will, it kills the bacteria,” John said, and, feeling bad, walked over to give Sherlock a kiss on the forehead, bacteria be damned. Sherlock leaned against him for a moment before pulling back. 

“I am in no way capable of taking care of you the way you’ve taken care of me,” he said, “so don’t go getting sick, ok?” 

John laughed and took a step back, “ok.” 

They went into the living room where Sherlock stretched out onto the couch and John settled into his chair. John opened his computer and Sherlock opened his newspaper. But they had been sitting like that for just a moment before Sherlock signed and dropped the paper, letting it flop down over his face. “John I am going out of my mind here.” 

“Do you to watch the telly?” 

“No.” 

“Do you want your computer?” 

“No.” 

“Do you want me to throw this book at your head?” 

Sherlock’s eyes appeared over the top of the paper. “I would prefer if you didn’t, but you’re welcome to try if you like, might spice things up a bit.” John sighed and set down the book that had been lying on the side table. 

“Ok, if you could do anything right now, what would you do?” 

“You.” 

John snorted and put his face in his hands. “Anything else?” 

“Maybe track down a serial killer of two. Then skydiving, I’ve always wanted to try it.” 

John smiled, “me too, actually.” 

“Yes, I know. Maybe we’ll-“ 

“Wait, how could you have possibly deduced that?” 

“Google search history.” 

“You’ve gone through my search history?” 

“Of course, you’ve got some interesting interests, John.” 

“That’s am invasion of privacy.” Sherlock raised his shoulders indifferently. “I’ve still got this book,” John said, “I could still throw it at you.” 

“Yes, but you won’t, can’t risk injuring the weak,” he spread out his hands, gesturing to himself and his condition. 

“You doubt my inhibition?” 

“Yes, very much.” 

“Aright, now you’re just being mean.” 

“Me? Mean?” said Sherlock said in a tone of mock offense. He pressed a shocked hand to his chest. 

“Yes you. You’re a mean one Mr. Grinch. Your heart’s two sizes too small.” 

“What does that even mean? My heart is perfectly normal. The only thing wrong with my physical condition right now is that it’s keeping me away from you.” 

John felt a warm glow in his ribcage when Sherlock said that. “Yes well, we can’t have both of us laid up in bed, now can we?” 

“No, I suppose not, London would burst into flames.” 

John smiled and shook his head, “yes, I think it would.” He stood and went into the kitchen, where he put the kettle on and grabbed a few cookies from the batch they had made the other day. He straightened up around the kitchen while he waited for the kettle and when it was ready he poured the hot water into the two waiting mugs. When the tea was ready, earl grey for him, lemon and ginger for the flu-addled Sherlock, he brought the mugs, along with the plate of cookies, back into the living room, where Sherlock had begun folding the pages of the newspaper into giant paper cranes. The was one sitting on the floor next to him, and a second was being formed in his hands. 

John set down his tea on the side table, next to where the book he had threatened Sherlock with was lying, and brought Sherlock his tea. He offered the plate of cookies and Sherlock selected one of John’s messily decorated ornaments. John sat back down into his chair, picking out a snowman for himself. They settled into a comfortable quiet, the pile of cranes growing around Sherlock, until eventually it seemed to bury him, serving as a makeshift blanket. John picked up the book that had almost ended up of Sherlock’s side of the room, and began skimming through it, before settling on an interesting chapter about bone marrow. They stayed like that for some time, Sherlock occasionally coughing and upsetting a bird on his stomach, John looking up attentively every time to make sure he was ok. And each time, Sherlock would give him a little smile to let him know he was fine and John could relax his tensed shoulders. But John knew, the instinct to take care of Sherlock was one that would never go away.


	15. Day 15 - Memories

John rose early, after spending the night once again in his cold and empty upstairs bedroom, and wandered down to a quiet flat a few minutes later. Sherlock wasn’t in the living room or the kitchen, so John knocked gently on on their bedroom door and opened it softly when Sherlock called for him to come in. Sherlock was sitting up in bed, surrounded by pillows, reading a book. 

“How’s my little invalid doing?” John asked. 

“Wishing to be an invalid no more,” Sherlock said, setting his book facedown on his lap. 

“Want some breakfast?” John asked, walking over to give Sherlock a good morning kiss on the forehead. 

“Yes please,” Sherlock said, swinging his legs around to the side of the bed, more sprightly than he had been these past few days. He stood, coming face to face with John, who surprised to see how energetic he was. He returned John’s kiss on the forehead and they walked to the kitchen together. 

John began making eggs and Sherlock put the kettle on. Once the kettle was heating up he stood behind John, who was at the stove, and slid his arms around his waist, patiently waiting for his eggs to be made, with his chin resting atop John’s head. 

“Feeling all better then?” John asked, cracking another egg into the pan.

“Mostly,” Sherlock said, “I might still need you to take care of me though.” 

John laughed and nodded, happy to take care of Sherlock for as long as possible. Once the eggs had turned from clear to white John transferred them from the pan onto a plate, which he handed to Sherlock, who took it to the table and sat down. He heard Sherlock open the morning paper as he began making his own breakfast. When his own eggs were done he turned to see that Sherlock had entirely disappeared behind the paper, so he slid into the seat across from Sherlock without a word. 

John finished his eggs he went off to take a shower and get ready for his day. When he emerged from the bathroom, clean shaven and smelling of his and Sherlock’s now shared shampoo, Sherlock had migrated from the kitchen to the living room, but was still hidden behind his paper. John sat down in his chair and opened his laptop, but had barely begun typing when his phone buzzed. 

“Tell Lestrade I’m alive and well,” Sherlock said without looking up from his paper. 

“You don’t even know that it’s him,” said John, who hadn’t picked up his phone yet. 

“Yes I do,” said Sherlock, tilting the newspaper down to give John an upside down view of the headline inside. John look at his screen and sure enough, it was Lestrade that had texted. 

“Is Sherlock better yet?” he had said, “I need him for a case.” 

“Yeah, come over,” was John’s typed replied. He set his phone down and nudged Sherlock with his foot. “Lestrade will be here in a little while,” he said. 

“Excellent,” said Sherlock, turning the page of his paper. He paused for a moment, then excitedly shut his paper. “Excellent,” he said again and stood from his chair. “Excellent,” he said a final time and quickly strode out of the room, to change out of his pajamas, John presumed. 

Sherlock came back a few minutes later, his crisp white shirt perfectly pressed. He sat on the edge of his chair, his back perfectly straight in rigid anticipation. He began tapping out an expectant beat on his knees, waiting in bated excitement for Lestrade to arrive. A few minutes passed and when they heard Lestrade’s car pull up outside it took all of Sherlock’s strength not to jump up and race downstairs to greet him. Instead he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, foot tapping rapidly on the floor, as they listened as Mrs. Hudson let Lestrade in downstairs. 

When Lestrade walked into their flat he was greeted by greeted by a small army of origami animals. Yesterday Sherlock had eventually moved on, not only from that day’s paper to all of the papers from the last week, but had also advanced into making various other animals. Lestrade moves aside a large paper frog and sat down on the couch. “So,” he said, “triple homicide.” 

That was all it took for Sherlock to jump out of his chair and start talking animatedly about the theories he had formed just from reading the paper alone. Lestrade raised his eyebrows and looked past Sherlock at John. John shrugged as if to say “what did you expect?” 

Sherlock paused, slightly out of breath. “Well, what are we waiting for, let’s go,” he said, striding towards the door. John and Lestrade followed him downstairs and Sherlock hailed a cab, which pulled up behind Lestrade’s police car. 

On the ride to the crime scene John looked out the window and realized that London was beginning to look like a map of their relationship. They were headed to Brixton, where they’d solved their first crime together, and they passed the dim sum place where they’d had their first date. John smiled when he saw the park where he’d seen Mike Stanford, who then introduced him to Sherlock. Everywhere he looked there seemed to be a memory associated with Sherlock, like Sherlock had stepped into his view and gradually gotten bigger and bigger, until his took up all of John’s vision. 

Sherlock himself was also gazing out the window, but John knew his mind was entirely elsewhere. When they pulled up outside the crime scene Sherlock was out of the door before the car had even stopped, leaving John to pay the cabbie and chase after him. 

He and Lestrade both stood back as Sherlock bent down and began to eagerly examine one of the bodies. They stayed at crime scene for some time, before heading to the crime lab to continue examining evidence. By the end of the day John was exhausted, but Sherlock was positively glowing. He’d coughed a few times throughout the day, but otherwise seemed miraculously healed. 

Despite his exhaustion, when they got back to Baker Street and hung up their coats John turned to Sherlock and held out his arms. “Alright, come here,” he said and scooped up Sherlock. Sherlock let out a surprised yelp and wrapped his arms around John neck. 

“I thought this was my job,” he said, realizing the position he was in. 

“Well, you’re sick,” said John, “so I’m taking over.” He was holding Sherlock with his arms beneath Sherlock’s back and knees, groom carrying bride style. Sherlock relaxed in John’s arms, impressed, but not surprised, by their strength. Despite their height difference, John carried Sherlock easily, his robustness the remnants of his military service. 

“I’ll have to start getting sick more often if I get treated like this,” Sherlock said, placing a kiss in John’s hair.

“Need I remind you of all the boredom, complaining, and salt water?” 

Sherlock sighed and John mounted the first step. Sherlock could feel John’s muscles moving as they walked, even through their shirts and coats. He revealed in the feeling as John climbed the stairs and carried him into their flat, where John dropped him into bed. He kicked off his shoes and curled into a comfortable position while John changed into his pajamas. 

Once John was changed he turned off the light and climbed into bed next to Sherlock, relieved to finally be back in their room, instead of his dark dusty one upstairs. They burrowed under the covers, Sherlock still fully clothed, and settled in for the night, both of their heads already drooping. John breathed in the smell of Sherlock, blissfully glad to be this close to him again. After a moment he nestled his head against Sherlock’s chest and fell asleep.


	16. Day 16 - Christmas Concert

“Are there any cookies left?” Sherlock called to John, who was in the kitchen. He was staring pensively out the window, his fingertip tapping on the sill. When John appeared at his shoulder, cookie in hand, and he took it without a word. He’d been sitting like that for over on hour, trying to work out a case. Taking a bite, frown firmly in place, he tried to picture the problem in his mind, but couldn’t seem to get it right. “I need to think,” he said, standing suddenly. John resisted the urge to ask him, “isn’t that what you’ve been doing for the last hour?”

Sherlock picked up his violin from where it had been sitting in the corner and placed it on his shoulder. When he rested the bow to the strings the sound that came out was piercing and urgent, the tempo fast, but muddled, like it was searching for the right beat, but couldn’t quite find it. Sherlock’s fingers quickened, plucking at the strings and pushing the bow faster and faster across the strings, searching for the right melody. 

John, who had sat down in his chair, bit the inside of his cheek and frowned, fully aware that the music Sherlock played served as a map of the inside of his brain. This music was confused and frustrated, searching and searching but not finding its rhythm. After a few minutes the music changed. Sherlock played one long note, which hung in the air for a moment before being overtaken by a string of quick eager notes, which Sherlock played with fervor. 

John looked up, searching his face for some indication of what the idea he had just gotten was. Sherlock raised the bow suddenly, cutting the music off mid-note. “I’ve got it,” he said, placing his violin in his chair and pulling out his phone. He called their client to explain his solution, twirling the bow in his other hand as he talked. John listened with a furrowed brow, furiously transcribing what he could hear of the conversation for his blog. 

“So,” said Sherlock, “that’s that.” He sat down in his chair, holding his violin in his lap. His feet tapped the floor, like his was sitting in a waiting room or on a bus. He was often like this after solving a particular kind of case, the kind that was difficult to work out, but didn't require much running around chasing after clues. They seemed to leave him feeling a little lost, like he didn’t quite know what to do with his brain now that it had finished working. 

An almost awkward silence hung in the air as they sat, quietly staring into space, for a moment. Sherlock broke the silence by taking a deep breath and standing, violin still in hand. He looked like he was about to say something but John cut him off abruptly. “Will you play for me?” he asked, surprising both himself and Sherlock with his request. Sherlock had played in front of John plenty of times, but the idea of paying for him was something new and different.

Sherlock blinked at him for a moment before nodding curtly and lifting the violin once again to his shoulder. He paused for a moment, bow hovering over strings, and hesitated. He seemed undecided about something, like he was waging a mental battle over what to do. Then, just as suddenly as he had lifted it, Sherlock set the violin down and turned away. 

John deflated, afraid that he had embarrassed him or asked too much. But instead of crossing his arms or closing himself off, Sherlock began digging around his bookshelf. He was shoving books aside and occasionally flipping one open to a random page, before shutting it again with a snap. John, still afraid the he had crossed some invisible line, stayed silent, though internally he was shouting desperately at Sherlock. What did I do, he begged with his mind. But it seemed Sherlock was too consumed to hear him. 

Sherlock stopped suddenly, one hand lifting a book in the air, the other reaching to the back of the bookcase. The hand holding the book lowered, and slowly he pulled out a small sheaf of papers from behind a row of books. John stared at him, wide eyed and confused, but he understood suddenly when Sherlock straightened the papers and placed them on his music stand. 

“I, um, I started writing this when, when I first,” Sherlock paused, his hands clasped nervously before him, “when I first realized I loved you.” John’s heart, which had been hovering with anxious anticipation in his chest, dropped with a sudden and resounding thump, before exploding back to life. They’d never said this out loud before. John had thought it over and over again, I love you, I love you, I love you, but he’d never plucked up the courage to say it aloud. And now here Sherlock was, standing in front of him, eyes scanning John’s face in fear, looking for any tiny negative reaction that he may have. 

Before allowing John to reply he picked up his violin with a sort of apprehensive determination and began to play. The first note was sharp and clear, reminding John uncannily of the note that Sherlock had played a few minutes before when he’d had his sudden idea about the case. But what followed was something less urgent. Instead it was curious and a bit skittish, as if he were skirting an idea that he wanted to delve deeper into.

The melody built up, rising into something increasingly intense, but something that was yearning for more. It rose, swelling with passion and longing, and John could hear Sherlock falling. It carried on, the music of dark lonely nights and long glances when another person’s back was turned. He could hear the ache, he could hear Sherlock offering up his heart in his outstretched palm. 

And suddenly the music exploded in intensity, bursting from quiet longing into electrified exuberance. The thing that had been simmering under the surface of the song leapt forward, eagerly dancing through the air. The song turned into to one of buoyant rapture, twirling through the living room on wings of laughter. John could see images of the beginning of their relationship racing through his mind as Sherlock played. The curiosity was back, but it it was more brazen and confident, unabashedly ardent and enthusiastic. 

It was the sound, John realized, of how Sherlock felt when they’d finally closed the gap between themselves. It was inquisitive, but intoxicated, entirely consumed by this new thing that it was exploring. There was a fervor, a need, almost a hunger, in the music. With a start John realized that Sherlock was mapping out their relationship with sound, weaving the story of how he fell in love. When the tune eased the music became softer and John recognized where they were now. He could hear the quiet mornings and the unspoken affection. Slowly the song drifted downwards, settling on his shoulders like a blanket, reaching its end. 

As soon as Sherlock finished playing the final note John was crashing into him. He couldn’t even remember rising from his chair, but suddenly his hands were on the sides of Sherlock’s face and he was kissing him, telling him not to be afraid. When John pulled back, gasping for air, Sherlock smiled and John pressed their foreheads together. “I love you,” he said. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” He would have continued, saying it over and over, had Sherlock not taken his own face in his hands and kissed him deeply. John leaned forward, almost collapsing into Sherlock, and Sherlock guided them into his chair, his lips never leaving John’s. 

It was the kiss that said a thousand words. John told Sherlock how much he loved the song, Sherlock told John about how long he’s been writing it, how he kept adding to it every time he felt something new. John told Sherlock again and again how much he loved him. Sherlock smiled and returned the sentiment. And they stayed like that, talking, long into the night.


	17. Day 17 – Frozen Counts as a Christmas Movie, Shut Up

“Stop doing that.” 

“Doing what?” 

“That thing, where your scarf flaps in the breeze and you look all cool and mysterious.”

Sherlock looked sideways at John before returning his eyes to the café across the street. “I can’t control the wind John.” 

“For all I know, you can.” 

“How would I control the wind? That’s impossible.” 

“Well you can control how cool and mysterious you look.”

“Mmm, I don’t think I can. I think I just radiate a cool, mysterious aura and there’s nothing anyone can do about it,” Sherlock said. They stepped from the pavement on to the crosswalk and John contemplated pushing him in front of a car as they began walking across the street. “Besides,” Sherlock said, “I thought you liked how cool and mysterious I am.”

“I would if you stopped calling yourself cool and mysterious,”

“You’re the one who brought this up.” John had no argument to that so he shoved his hands in his pockets and frowned. The truth was, he adored how “cool and mysterious” Sherlock was, he just wanted to pester him about it. But whenever he tried to lovingly pester Sherlock about anything, Sherlock argued him into a corner. He should have become a lawyer. 

They walked down the street in silence, John with his hands shoved moodily in his pockets, and Sherlock with a smug grin. When they reached the café Sherlock smoothly pulled open the door for John and caught his eye, winking haughtily. John glared, but gave him an affectionate shove on the shoulder when they stepped inside and stopped, standing side by side, waiting for the hostess to seat them. 

They were in an airy, light filled café, the walls painted a shade of robin’s egg blue. The hostess appeared, and smiled at them. “Just the two of you today?” she asked. They nodded and she smiled. “alright, follow me,” she said. She led them to a table by the large bay windows and placed menus at each of the table settings. 

John and Sherlock sat down across from each other and she left them, letting them know their waiter would be with them shortly before turning away. The picked up their menus and Sherlock began perusing his, but John couldn’t seem to focus on the words on the page. Instead he furtively watched Sherlock over the top of his menu, while Sherlock mentally debated his many lunch options. 

John had expected something to change after their big “I love you,” the day before, but they’d still woken up next to each other, had breakfast together, gone to St. Bart’s together, and everything was exactly the same. He had thought for some reason, that when he woke up Sherlock would look slightly different, or when they had breakfast and went about their day, that there would be a different feeling between them. Not better or worse, just different. But instead they had continued with their lives as if nothing had happened at all. John knew Sherlock probably thought of it in scientific terms, so he nudged him with his foot under the table and asked “does anything change after you say I love you? Like with the chemicals in your brain?” 

Sherlock looked up from his menu and blinked. He seemed to consider for a moment, then set down his menu and folded his hands in front of him. “Well it depends on how you look at it,” he said. “Technically no, saying ‘I love you’ doesn’t change any sort of chemical make up in your brain. However, actually being in love does release different neurotransmitters than lust or attraction, which are often linked with testosterone and dopamine. You can feel attracted to someone and get lots of dopamine and norepinephrine released in your brain, but not be in love with them. When you fall in ‘love’ per say, you’ll develop an attachment and your brain will produce oxytocin and vasopressin, which factors heavily into long-term relationships, but can also form as a result of, say, parental affection.” 

John nodded, turning over what Sherlock had said in his mind. “So, saying it doesn’t change anything, but actually being in love does?”

“That is correct.” John nodded again, trying to think back and figure out when he felt the change. Sherlock, picking up on how hard John was thinking about this, but misinterpreting his confusion, looked at him with brows furrowed in concern. “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?” 

The look on Sherlock’s face made John’s heart splinter. “No, of course not. No,” he said reaching across the table and grabbing Sherlock’s hand. “I love you so much, I was just trying to figure out when my dopamine turned into oxytocin you dimwit.” Sherlock’s shoulders visibly relaxed and he went back to reading his menu. John, relived to have had Sherlock’s clear, scientific view cut through the muddled state of his own brain, also resumed picking out what to eat for lunch. 

They ordered a minute later and the serious tone that had overtaken their meal lifted. John, eager to change the subject, looked over at Sherlock and raised his eyebrows. “So,” he said, “I still cannot get over that fact that my so-called dark and mysterious boyfriend is taking me to a film for children.” 

Sherlock let out an exasperated huff of breath, “we’ve been over this. You are not allowed to tease me about wanting to see Frozen 2 any more. Besides, you like Christmas movies, you should be enjoying this.”

“Ok, first of all, I will be teasing you about this until the end of time. Second of all, Frozen is not a Christmas movie.”

“Yes, it is. It has snowmen, magic, and overt themes of family and love, all of which are frequently present in Christmas movies. Not to mention, its set in, and good to watch during, winter time. Therefore, Frozen is a Christmas movie, despite never actually mentioning the holiday.” Sherlock’s tone was one of coolheaded rationality, as if he were explaining multiplication, or how to dissect a human brain. 

John shook his head. “Frozen still isn’t a Christmas movie,” he said. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “Frozen counts as a Christmas movie, shut up.” John laughed at his conviction, but didn’t argue any further. 

When their meal came they ate it quickly, not wanting to be late, and left, walking to the cinema a few blocks away. Sherlock had insisted on buying tickets ahead of time so they wouldn’t have to stand in the queues, but John wanted popcorn, so they ended up waiting anyways. Sherlock tugged impatiently at John’s sleeve the entire time. “Good lord you are impatient,” John said, batting his hand away, then immediately wishing it was touching him again. 

“Well, I don’t want to miss the trailers,” Sherlock said, craning his neck to see how many people were in front of them. The line wasn’t actually that long, considering that it was the middle of the day, not to mention the middle of the week. When they finally did make it to their seats Sherlock settled in and John cast a sidelong glance at him, surprised by his apparent love for animated films. He passed over the popcorn and as the trailers started poked Sherlock on the shoulder, “You turned your phone off, right?” he whispered. 

“Yes John, I know to turn my phone off at the cinema,” Sherlock whispered back, “I’m not a child.” 

That was too easy, “Uh, huh, really? Because we are at a children’s film,” John said. They looked at each other indignantly, but John smiled and leaned his head on Sherlock’s shoulder as the movie began to play.


	18. Day 18 - Skating

“I am not going ice skating,” Sherlock said, crossing his arms defiantly and plunking down into his chair. 

“Come on Sherlock, you’re acting like a child.”

“Yes, I am. And I don’t want to go.” 

“First Frozen 2, now this. I’m starting to think I fell in love with a three-year-old,” John said, ruffling Sherlock’s hair and lowering himself into his lap, bringing their faces centimeters apart. “Should I get you a security blanket and a binky too?” 

“I can’t be annoyed at you when you’re sitting on me like this,” Sherlock huffed.

“I know, that’s the point,” said John, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, “maybe now you’ll listen to me.” He kissed Sherlock’s smooth, cool cheek and pressed his nose to his temple. 

Sherlock sighed, letting out a long breath of air and John felt his chest deflating with resignation in his arms. “Alright, fine,” he said. John beamed at him, bouncing up and down with excitement. “Now who’s acting like a child?” Sherlock asked at John’s display of boyish enthusiasm. 

John rolled his eyes, but didn’t stop doing his little happy dance. “Fine, we’re even,” he said, “but I loved ice skating as a kid, you’re just being unreasonable.” Sherlock was secretly pleased about going skating, just because it made John this happy, but he maintained his outward distain. He stood, lifting John as he did, and walked to the bedroom, John in his arms, to get their shoes. 

When they opened the door and stepped outside a few minutes later the wind was coming in gusts, catching their scarfs and hair as it blew by and attempting to carry them down the street. They bent against the wind, tilting their shoulders forward to protect themselves against the cold, and headed down the street. Sherlock, who would have been becoming increasingly indignant were it not for John’s visibly eager step, tightened his scarf around his neck to keep it from flying away. 

As they walked to Hyde Park the wind died down, and by the time they had reached the Winter Wonderland ice rink it had almost completely gone away, leaving a brisk chill in its place. They stood in the long queue, the park bustling with tourists and Londoners alike, despite it being the middle of the week, and waited to get tickets and their skates. When they finally made it onto the ice, each £15 poorer and with bright blue rented skates strapped to their feet, there were large clumps of people racing past. 

John glided from the entrance and joined the crowd, but turned to see that Sherlock wasn’t next him. He looked over his shoulder and saw Sherlock standing near the entrance, a look of masked terror on his face. John skated back to where Sherlock was. “What’s the matter?” he asked, looking between Sherlock and the masses of people skating past. Sherlock said nothing, staring hollowly at John without saying a word. John came to a sudden understanding when he realized the Sherlock had barely moved, getting out of the way of the entrance then stopping and standing stock still. “Did you never learn to ice skate?” he asked. Sherlock shook his head and John resisted the urge to giggle, instead skating closer and taking Sherlock by the shoulders to guide him over to the railing. “Alright, grab hold of that,” he said, indicating to the railing and placing a hand on it himself. 

Sherlock mirrored his position and placed a hand on the railing, albeit with a much tighter grip. John saw his white knuckles and looked up at Sherlock, caught between amusement and sympathy. “Ok,” he instructed, “move your feet like this,” he demonstrated and, sliding his hand along the railing, pushed forward a little. He looked over his shoulder and watched as Sherlock followed. Seeing that he seemed to have it right, John turned back around and skated forward a little further, but felt Sherlock’s hand grab his shoulder only a second later. He turned around to find Sherlock very close to him, one hand still on the railing and the other gripping his shoulder. 

Unable to resist, he slid his arms around Sherlock’s waist and hugged him for a moment, laying his head on Sherlock’s chest and feeling his heart pounding beneath his many layers of clothes. Sherlock didn’t tense in John’s arms, his fear seeming to triumph over his discomfort with public displays of affection. John marveled at the fact that same man he had witnessed face off calmly with murders, was now trembling over ice skating. “Sherlock,” he said, “its ok. You’ll be fine.” Sherlock nodded and squeezed him closer for a moment before letting John go and looking forward, lifting his chin in steadfast determination. John smiled. That was the Sherlock he knew. 

“I promised I watched at least four separate YouTube tutorials after you suggested this,” Sherlock said, “but apparently the internet cannot solve every problem.”

John laughed and linked his elbow through Sherlock’s. “No, I guess it can’t,” he said. Taking a different approach, he skated forward a tiny bit, guiding Sherlock by the elbow. This seemed to work and, clinging to John, Sherlock skated forward a few feet, then a few more, until he seemed to have a hang of the foot motion. After a while John looked over at Sherlock, who now seemed significantly less panicked, and slowly removed his arm from around Sherlock’s elbow. Sherlock’s eyes widened for a moment, but, realizing he was still gliding along, even without John’s support, his face relaxed and he skated with only the help of the railing for a few feet. 

“Want to try letting go?” John asked him, nodding to the railing. Sherlock met his eyes and slowly lifted his hand from the side of the ice rink. He slid one foot back, pushing forward towards John, but almost immediately fell and landed on his bum. A giggle escaped John’s lips and Sherlock shot him a glare before pushing himself up to stand. He managed to skate to where John was standing a few feet away, but grabbed John’s hand the second he was within arms-length distance of him. John squeezed his hand, still fighting back a laugh, and glided forward, hand tucked assuredly into Sherlock’s. 

They joined the crow of people confidently skating around the center of the rink and made their way along, Sherlock gaining speed and, eventually, balance. He let go of John’s hand after a while and skated along by himself. Now that Sherlock was skating by himself when a pocket of empty space appeared John slid forward and gave a small twirl before returning to Sherlock’s side. Sherlock looked over at him, his eyes wide in amazement. “That was really impressive,” he said, his voice slightly breathless. 

“What? No it wasn’t,” John laughed, but Sherlock shook his head. 

“Do it again,” he said, giving John a little affectionate push on the shoulder. John, pleased that Sherlock was impressed, but also baffled by it, looked around, waiting for an opening, before skating forward and spinning around twice and stopping, waiting for Sherlock to catch up. Sherlock glided up to him, eyes never leaving his face, and smiled. 

“I can’t believe you can do that,” he said. 

“It’s not that hard,” John insisted, “I can’t believe I finally found something that I’m better at than you.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock said, grabbing John by the hand again and pulling him along into the crowd.


	19. Chapter 19 - Snowball Fight

“John, it snowed again,” Sherlock called from his place by the window. It was early in the morning and John was in the kitchen making coffee. 

“What? No, it didn’t,” John said, not looking up from the coffee pot. 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and closed the curtains, walking back to the kitchen. “If you say so,” he said, plopping down into a chair across from John and propping one elbow on the table, placing his chin in his hand. 

“Wait a minute, it actually snowed?” John looked up from the coffee machine, which seemed to have given up on making coffee, and met Sherlock’s eyes. 

Sherlock shrugged demurely. “I don’t know, you tell me,” he said. 

John rolled his eyes, abandoned the coffee pot, and stomped over to the window. He pulled open the curtains and let out a small sound of shock. “Holly hell, it really did snow,” he conceded. He turned and paused, processing the weather outside, before returning to the kitchen. “What on Earth is all of this snow doing in London?” he asked. 

“And can it go back to Antarctica please?” Sherlock muttered. He leaned over and gave the coffee pot a firm slap, which caused a weak stream of coffee to appear.

“How did you-? I’ve been fiddling with that damn thing for twenty minutes.” Sherlock shrugged again and they watched the coffee slowly fill the pot, before pouring it into their own mugs.

When they had been sufficiently caffeinated, and had eaten their breakfast and gotten ready, John and Sherlock headed downstairs and got on their coats. They were heading out, despite the snow, to get groceries. When they stepped onto the pavement outside ice and snow crunched beneath their feet. John shoved his hands deep into his pockets and looked up at Sherlock, who was scowling at the snow as if glaring could make it go away. 

They walked down the street in silence, John mentally going over their grocery list in his head. When they passed the entrance to the park, John, unable to help himself bent down and scooped up a ball of snow, which he threw at Sherlock’s head. Sherlock, entirely unsuspecting, looked completely stunned for a moment, his body coiled against the impact of the snowball and his face contorted in shock. 

Squatting down, he began packing a ball of snow in his hands and John, seeing the size of his snowball and the expression of determined fury on his face, retreated further into the park. Sherlock ran and send the snowball flying after him. It hit him square in the back of the head and John laughed and leaned down, scooping up some snow, which he sent over his shoulder at Sherlock. 

The snow hit Sherlock, dusting his hair with white flakes. Sherlock made another ball, but when he threw it, it harmlessly hit a tree and John slowed, packing snow into another ball and throwing it. It hit Sherlock on the shoulder and they both paused to catch their breath before John threw another snowball in Sherlock’s direction and took off running again. 

Sherlock chased him through the park, his long legs catching up easily with John. As he got closer he threw another snowball. This one hit John on his back and when he stumbled a little Sherlock managed to catch up with him. Sherlock reached for John, spinning him around. “I won!” he exclaimed, fingers clutching John’s wrist.

“Oh yeah?” John bent down and scooped up a handful of snow with his free hand, which he then shoved down the back Sherlock’s coat, moving too quickly for Sherlock to stop him. Sherlock shrieked, sending a flock of birds bursting upwards into the sky from a nearby tree. He writhed, attempting to get the freezing snow off his skin. John covered his mouth with his hand and bent over, laughter shaking his shoulders. 

The second Sherlock recovered he sprang forward, tackling John. They landed in a pile of snow behind a clump of trees. John rolled over, pushing Sherlock into the snow. “I won, admit it,” he said, pushing down on Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock took a deep breath, but instead of protesting he lifted his torso, taking John by the back of the neck and kissing him. John, surprised and thrown off balance, shot his hands out, putting them on either side of Sherlock’s head. The cold, wet snow slid through his fingers as he tilted his head, melting into Sherlock. 

Sherlock moved his hands upwards, skimming his fingers along the short hairs on the back of John’s neck before threading his hands through John’s hair and cradling his head. They stayed, kissing in the snowbank, until the snow began to soak through Sherlock’s coat and he sat up to avoid getting soaked. John broke away and grinning. “Was that a yes?” he asked. He stood, helping Sherlock get up and brushed the snow from his shoulders. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “No,” he said. 

“Yes it was,” John said, running his hands through Sherlock’s hair, sweeping away the snow that was caught in his curls. Sherlock grabbed him by the waist, pulling him in for another kiss. “Sherlock,” John said when their lips momentarily parted, “the groceries.” Sherlock didn’t respond, kissing John again instead. They leaned against a tree, Sherlock with his back pressed against the bark. “We need to get them,” John said, each word punctuated by a kiss from Sherlock. 

Eventually John broke away, leaning his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder. “We really do need to get our groceries,” he said.

“Mmm, no,” Sherlock murmured, “lets just stay in this park forever.” 

“What will we eat without groceries?” 

“Hmm, right, very logical,” Sherlock pressed a kiss on top of John’s head, “yes, ok, groceries.” 

John smiled and lifted his head from Sherlock’s shoulder. “Alright, groceries,” he said. He pressed one last kiss to Sherlock’s lips and stepped back. Sherlock stepped forward as well, leaving the tree and standing next to John. They exchanged a glance before walking from the park and to the grocery store, both slightly dripping with snow.


	20. Day 20 – Mistletoe

“So then, when he stabbed her, it ended up-” Sherlock stopped talking abruptly. John and Sherlock had been walking up the stairs to their flat, Sherlock prattling on animatedly about a case, when they rounded the corner on the landing and Sherlock silenced suddenly and stared at their door. John, who had been watching Sherlock and not paying attention to much else, turned to see why he had stopped. The door to their flat was hanging open and dangling from the doorframe was a sprig of mistletoe. 

“What the…?” John looked at Sherlock, who hadn’t taken his eyes off the mistletoe. Sherlock squinted and tilted his head, examining the mistletoe and doorframe from a distance. John could see him taking in every detail of the scene with a sharp, analytic eye. 

“Stay right there John,” he said, lightly touching John’s shoulder and slowly climbing the last of the stairs. John frowned and furrowed his brow, confused by the sudden appearance of mistletoe in their doorway, but not nearly as apprehensive as Sherlock. Sherlock stopped on the top step and bent forward, scanning the doorway and surrounding area for any clues as to who had put the mistletoe where it was. 

“Can I please come up there with you?” John asked, crossing his arms indignantly.

“No, it might be a trap, I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“A trap? Sherlock, this is not a trap. Who would plant mistletoe in our doorway as a trap?” Sherlock took a deep breath, looking like he was about to recite a long list of people who would put mistletoe in their doorway as a trap, but John cut him off before he could begin. “I think it’s pretty clear how this got here,” he said. 

Sherlock stared at him, and John could see the cogs slowly turning in his mind. His face suddenly lit with understanding and he lifted his hands in the air in an “ah-ha” motion. “Mrs. Hudson!” he bellowed, storming back down the stairs. 

He blew past John, who followed, calmly trotting downstairs in Sherlock’s wake. Sherlock was impatiently knocking on Mrs. Hudson’s door when John caught up with him. They stood in silence for a moment before Mrs. Hudson opened the door to her apartment. “Did you put mistletoe in our doorway?” Sherlock asked before Mrs. Hudson could say anything. 

“Mistletoe? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, raising her hand and coyly playing with her earring. 

“Lies. You’re telling me lies Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said. She shrugged modestly, but when she looked over Sherlock’s shoulder at John, she winked. “I saw that,” said Sherlock, “how could I have not seen that?” John grinned behind Sherlock’s back and returned Mrs. Hudson’s wink. This Sherlock did not see and both he and Mrs. Hudson repressed a smile. 

“Come on, Sherlock,” John said, tugging the on his sleeve. Sherlock sighed and gave Mrs. Hudson a final look. 

“Mistletoe is a parasite you know,” he said. “It kills trees.”

“You’re grumpy attitude is a parasite,” John said, sliding his hand around Sherlock’s waist and guiding his away from Mrs. Hudson’s door. Sherlock continued muttering about how mistletoe sucks water and nutrients from trees. 

“Have fun,” Mrs. Hudson called after them. 

_“Mrs. Hudson,”_ Sherlock and John said at the same time, Sherlock in a scandalized tone and and John pleasantly shocked. He looked over his shoulder while gently pushing Sherlock up the stairs and Mrs. Hudson gave a little wave. He broke into an astonished grin and continued up the stairs, with Sherlock in tow. 

When they reached the landing John and Sherlock exchanged a glance. John was openly grinning and Sherlock was trying very hard to maintain his outwardly prickly demeanor, but in truth, it was barely holding on. In a moment of impulsive excitement John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and pulled him up the final flight of stairs. Sherlock tripped after him, not letting go. They bounded upwards together, feet eagerly hitting the stairs. 

When they reached the doorway John pushed Sherlock roughly by the shoulders against the doorjamb and kissed him, open-mouthed and passionate. Sherlock responded with a long moan in the back of his throat, his eyes rolling back as they closed. John pressed against him, moving his hands from Sherlock’s shoulders to run along the sharp line of his chin.

Sherlock ran the tip of his tongue across John’s bottom lip before placing it gently between his teeth. When John didn’t pull away he bit harder, causing John to squirm, a small laugh escaping his lips. Sherlock smiled, his mouth never leaving John’s. He slid his hands beneath John’s coat and dug his fingers into John’s back, pulling him closer. 

Fingers interlaced on the back of Sherlock’s neck, John leaned forward further, his shoulders and hips pushed against Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s shoulder blades reached for one another as he arched his back away from the doorframe, curving his torso against John’s. His hands were still on John’s back and he gripped John’s shirt, the fabric bunching in his fingers. 

John let out a low sound of pleasure, somewhere between a moan and a growl. His mouth attuned with Sherlock’s, their lips and teeth and tongue moving as one. He turned his head for a moment, gasping heavily and trying to catch his breath. He felt Sherlock nose press against his face, blowing hot air against his cool cheek as he exhaled. John inhaled deeply before turning back towards Sherlock. Their chests were pressed together and they were breathing opposite one another, John’s lungs filling with air as Sherlock’s collapsed. John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s, the tips of their noses touching, their upper lips barely brushing one another. 

John laughed quietly, his breath coming out soft and slightly uneven. “Do we have anything planned for the rest of the day?” he asked. 

“No,” Sherlock said, barely blinking before he responded. John knew Sherlock hadn’t even gone over their schedule in his mind before responding and, when he laughed, Sherlock could feel John’s chest shaking slightly against his ribcage. He looked deeply into John’s eyes, a small grin playing across his face. John grinned back and licked his lips compulsively, eyes never leaving Sherlock’s. 

“Well, ok then,” he said, tightening his fingers around the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulling him in once again for another kiss, closing the gap between their mouths. It was a gap that stayed closed as they clumsily moved from the doorway to the couch, lowering from vertical to horizontal in one inelegant but passionate motion. Despite bumping knees and noses and elbows and ribcages, John and Sherlock never pulled away as the began whiling away the afternoon hours.


	21. Day 21 – “Is Something Burning?”

“Is something burning?” John said. He was standing in the doorway to their flat, having just returned from work. He had stopped and inhaled deeply when he realized that the smell of smoke was lingering in the air. “Sherlock, is something burning?” he repeated. Sherlock looked up from his book and squinted slightly, eyes moving back and forth as if he was searching the inside of his brain for something.

“Ah, yes,” he said calmly, as if he had just remembered where he had left his keys, rather than whether or not something was on fire. He closed his book and stood, looking across the room at John and smiling. John, who was significantly less relaxed about this situation, looked around the flat, trying to figure out where the burning smell was coming from. He stepped from his place in the doorway into the living room, turning back and forth, looking for a source of the scent. 

He stopped when his eyes landed on the kitchen. Sherlock’s science equipment was scattered across the surface of the table as usual, but sitting at one end was Sherlock’s Bunsen burner, surrounded by petri dishes in various sizes. Each petri dish was hold lumps of what looked like charred flesh. “Sherlock, what have you done?” John asked, slowly taking a step towards the table, then deciding to stay where he was and stepping back. 

“I just, um, you know…” Sherlock trailed off, leading John to raise his eyebrows expectantly. 

“No, I don’t know. What is that?” he pointed to the collection of petri dishes on the table. 

“They’re just, well, I wanted to know how different organs would react to fire after being exposed to various extraneous conditions,” he said, walking towards the table, gesturing to the equipment, “So I’ve set up an experiment where I-” John held up his hand to stop him, knowing that Sherlock would go on for hours if he let him. 

“I don’t need a full rundown on the detailed particulars of your experiment. Did you or did you not set human organs on fire inside our flat?” 

Sherlock pressed his lips together hesitantly, “Um, yes, I did.” 

“God, Sherlock,” John rubbed to tips of his fingers against his temples, “I love you, but sometimes I just really want to-“ he raised his hands and made a motion like he was strangling someone. 

“To be fair,” said Sherlock, “the experiment was very successful.” 

“And I bet it would have been just as a successful in a laboratory, instead of our kitchen!” John cried, shaking Sherlock by the shoulders. Sherlock laughed softly and they rested their foreheads together, John shaking his head back and forth, hands still resting on Sherlock’s shoulders. “I don’t know what to do with you sometimes,” he said. 

Sherlock sighed heavily, “I don’t know what to do with me sometimes too.” 

John laughed weakly. “Come here,” he said, wrapping Sherlock into a hug. They stood like that for a moment, Sherlock with his chin resting atop John’s head, John with his arms wrapped around Sherlock’s waist. “I better not find any more burnt human body parts in our kitchen again,” he said, giving Sherlock a final squeeze and pulling back. Sherlock pressed a kiss to his forehead. 

“No promises,” he said, “but I’ll try.”

“If you say so,” John said. “Now we are going to clean that up,” he pointed again at the table full of petri dishes, “and you are not going to argue.” Sherlock nodded and stepped towards the kitchen. He paused and looked back at John. John smiled and followed. 

They stood together in the doorway for a moment, John nervously biting his lip, intimidated by the task before them, and Sherlock with his hand placed determinedly on his hips. “Shall we?” he said, looking over at John, who took a deep breath and nodded. 

“I suppose so,” John said. They approached the table, John with his nose slightly scrunched, Sherlock scanning the many organ samples to see if there had been any changes. He handed John a pair of rubber gloves and put on a pair himself. They each picked up a petri dish and scraped the organs into a plastic bag. “Do I even want to know where you got these?” John asked, nodding to the many different organ samples. 

“Probably not,” Sherlock said. John nodded again, knowing he was right, and moved on to another dish. They worked quietly for a few minutes before John heard Sherlock give a small gasp of amazement. “John, look at how this liver-“ 

“No, do not show me that,” John said, turning his head away. “I do not want to admire your charred liver.” 

Sherlock frowned and gazed at the liver, holding it up to see it better in the sunlight. John continued cleaning, with his back turned, while Sherlock set the petri dish down and bent over a notebook that had been sitting on the table. He scribbled some notes about the changes in the liver before looking sadly at it. “I have to say goodbye to you,” he said to it, picking up the dish melancholically and bringing over to where John was waiting with an open bag. 

Sherlock looked at him, his eyes wide, like he was mourning the loss of a loved one. John suppressed a smile, caught between laughter and sympathy. Sherlock sadly scraped the liver into the bag and John sealed it and set it on the table. He gave Sherlock a consoling kiss on the forehead and cleaned up the last of the dishes, placing them all in the sink to be washed. 

Sherlock put away his Bunsen burner and surveyed the table. It was still covered with scientific equipment, test tubes and pipettes were strewn everywhere and his microscope stood where it always did. John stood next to him, resting his head on his shoulder. “You know, I thought you would be a lot less squeamish about this stuff,” Sherlock said, “considering that you’re a doctor.” 

“I’m not squeamish, I just don’t want to gaze lovingly at burnt livers.” 

“Mhmm, you’re squeamish, admit it,” Sherlock said, reaching over and teasingly pinching John’s side. 

“I’m not squeamish, shush,” he said, batting Sherlock’s hand away. 

Sherlock grinned. “Yes you are,” he said, reaching for John. John wriggled away and ran into the living room, where he curled up in his chair. 

“I’m not squeamish,” he yelled to Sherlock. Sherlock followed him from the kitchen and bent down from behind, giving him a kiss on the top of his head. He sat across from John in his chair, one leg straightened in from of him and the other thrown over the armrest. “How is that possibly comfortable?” John asked him. 

Sherlock shrugged and picked up the book he had abandoned when John had gotten home. Sinking deeper into his chair, he opened his book and settled in to read. John followed suit and opened his laptop to work on a blog post. It was in each other’s quiet company that the two of them spent the next few hours, silently enjoying the presence of their other half.


	22. Day 22 - Secret Santa

“It’s finally time,” Molly said, bouncing up and down on her heals. She was standing in the middle of John and Sherlock’s flat, looking around at the Christmas decorations. 

“Lord help us all,” Sherlock muttered. John, who was standing next to him, reached out and smacked him lightly on the back of the head.

“Be nice,” he said. Molly had arrived a few minutes before, hands eagerly clutching a small wrapped gift. She was the first to show up for their Christmas party and secret Santa exchange, which surprised neither John nor Sherlock. They had let her in and John offered her a drink, which she took and stood in the middle of the room, gazing around. 

A few minutes passed and there was another knock on the door. It was Mycroft, arriving exactly as the clock chimed 8 o’clock. He too was holding a small box. As he was stepping inside John heard Mrs. Hudson hurrying up the stairs. “I’m here,” she called, “I’m on time.” 

She bustled through the door after Mycroft and smiled at everyone. “Hello, happy Christmas,” she said. There was a chorus of happy Christmases in return and John went to get Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson drinks. “I see you’re both wearing your sweaters,” she said when John handed her a glass. John and Sherlock exchanged a look. They had both donned the sweaters she’d made them for the party. 

John looked down at his snowflake covered attire and nodded. “Yes. Yes we are.” He slid his arm around Sherlock’s waist. They all looked around at each other, waiting for Greg to show up. When he showed up a few minutes later he looked slightly harried. 

“Sorry for being late,” he said, looking at his watch. 

“It’s fine,” John said at the same time that Sherlock muttered under his breath about punctuality. “You’re not one to talk,” John said, looking up at Sherlock. Sherlock frowned and Greg went to stand next to Mycroft, who gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “So, should we do secret Santa now or later?” John asked.

Everyone looked around the room at each other. “Whichever,” said Greg. 

“Nows, fine with me,” said Mycroft. 

“Let’s do it now,” chimed in Molly. 

“Alright, now then?” John asked. Everyone nodded and they moved sit down. John ran into the bedroom to grab his and Sherlock’s gifts. When he came back Mrs. Hudson had settled into his chair so he perched on the armrest of Sherlock’s, handing Sherlock his gift as he sat down. Sherlock took it and set it in his lap, looking up and smiling at John in thanks. John smiled back and looked around the room. 

“Who want’s to go first?” Molly asked. 

“I don’t mind going first,” John said. Everyone nodded and John held out his gift. “This is for you,” he said to Molly. Molly smiled and took the gift. Sherlock nodded as if he had expected that. 

“I suppose you two already know who everyone got gifts for,” Molly said, looking between the two Holmeses. 

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do,” Mycroft said primly. Sherlock nodded and made a sound of self satisfaction. 

“Yes, I know everyone’s ‘secret Santa’ as you call it,” he said. Molly sighed to herself and looked down at her gift. She smiled up at John again and began carefully pulling back the wrapping paper. Inside was a box, which she opened and pulled out a mug. “That’s a caffeine molecule,” she exclaimed, turning the mug around to show the room. Printed on the mug was indeed a picture of a caffeine molecule.

“You like it?” John asked. 

“It’s adorable, thank you,” Molly said, smiling at him. “It is my turn?” They nodded and she handed a package to Mrs. Hudson. 

Mrs. Hudson took the gift and tore away the wrapping paper. She pulled out an ornament that had pictures of dogs chasing cats, and cats casing dogs. Before Mrs. Hudson could say anything Molly started explaining herself, “I didn’t know if you were a cat person or a dog person,” she said, sounding concerned that Mrs. Hudson didn’t like it, even though Mrs. Hudson hadn’t yet had a chance to react, “so I just got the one that had both. And if you-“ 

“Molly,” said Mrs. Hudson, cutting her off “I like it a lot, thank you.” Molly’s chest seemed to deflate in relief. She nodded, as if she was reassuring herself. 

“Ok, great, I’m so glad,” she said, nervously clasping her hands in her lap. Mrs. Hudson smiled turned to Mycroft, who looked entirely unsurprised to be handed a gift by her. He took the gift she handed him with a smile and delicately untied the bow and removed the wrapping, careful not tear the paper. Inside was a glass paperweight with the words Shut Up engraved on the top. “I know how fond you are of the phrase,” Mrs. Hudson said. 

John and Sherlock looked over at Mycroft, both remembering the time that, in a moment of impatience and frustration, Mycroft had yelled at Mrs. Hudson to shut up. Mycroft’s cheeks went slightly pink and Mrs. Hudson took a sip of her eggnog. “Thank you Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft said, looking down at the paperweight, slightly embarrassed, but also slightly amused. He passed the neatly wrapped gift he was holding to Greg, who was sitting next to him. 

Sherlock leaned forward with his eyebrows raised, eagerly waiting to see what the gift they had consulted Mycroft on turned out to be. John was also curious, though less overtly so than Sherlock. Greg unwrapped a blue tie, printed with tiny umbrellas. Greg smiled and squeezed Mycroft’s hand. John nodded and looked at Sherlock who smiled up at him. Greg cleared his throat and Sherlock looked at him. “It’s time for you to give me my gift?” 

“I suppose so,” said Greg, holding out a package and looking slightly terrified. Sherlock took it with a raised eyebrow. Similar to Mycroft, he unwrapped it without tearing any of the paper. Inside he found a box containing a oversized magnifying glass with a long wooded handle. “To go with your funny hat,” Greg said. 

Sherlock held it up to his eye, making his eye look overly large. “I already have a magnifying glass,” Sherlock said, referring to the collapsible one he took with him to crime scenes. 

“I know,” said Greg, “that one’s for when the newspapers photograph you looking like a proper detective.” John snorted and Sherlock scowled up at him. Everyone else was suppressing amused grins. 

“Here,” said John, leaning back and grabbing the deerstalker hat that was shoved in the corner. He placed it on Sherlock’s head and Sherlock’s frown deepened. “Now you’re a proper detective.” He winked at Greg, who grinned back. Sherlock sighed and reached up to touch the hat. He didn’t take it off before handing John his gift. 

John took the gift and pulled on the end of the ribbon, untying the bow. He tore open the wrapping paper and found a picture frame containing a picture of him and Sherlock that had been taken only a little while after they met. In it John was looking straight at the camera and smiling, but Sherlock was looking over at John. It was a picture John hadn’t seen in a while, but looking at it now he could suddenly see the love that Sherlock was looking at him with in a way he hadn’t seen when the picture was taken. There was a pure longing and adoration in Sherlock’s eyes that he couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed before. 

“That’s the first few lines of the song I wrote you,” Sherlock said quietly, pointing to the music notes engraved on the frame. “I um, I started writing it not long after this was taken.” 

“Oh, Sherlock,” John leaned down to wrap his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders. “Thank you so much.” 

“Of course,” said Sherlock. It seemed for a moment that everyone else in the room disappeared and it was just the two of them, holding each other close. Sherlock lifted his head a few moments later. “Shall I play some Christmas carols?” he asked.

There was a chorus of yeses and yes pleases from around the room. He stood and picked up his violin from the corner. Resting it beneath his chin, he placed the bow to the strings and began to play “Carol of the Bells.” Everyone leaned back, settling in to listen to the song. When “Carol of the Bells” ended Sherlock moved on the “Joy to the World,” smoothly transitioning from one song to the other. They all sat like that for a while, enjoying the music and each other’s company and the Christmas spirit.


	23. Day 23 - Christmas Lights

After a long day spent leaning over corpses and microscopes John and Sherlock stepped out of St. Barts onto the busy London street. The sun was rapidly sinking behind the buildings, leaving streaks of pink and orange across the sky in its wake. “So, we’re headed home then?” Sherlock said, stepping forward to hail a cab. 

“Wait,” John said, “lets not go home just yet.” Sherlock furrowed his brow in confusion as the cab pulled up beside the pavement. “Lets go down to Oxford Street and see then Christmas lights,” John clarified. 

Sherlock looked peeved at the idea of going anywhere but his warm flat. “I’ve got an experiment on at home that I need to check on,” he said. John happened to know that the only “experiment” Sherlock was working on at the moment was the jar of pickled kidneys that had been sitting in their fridge for the last month. 

“Your pickled kidneys can wait,” he said, “the lights won’t be up much longer.”

“But John,” Sherlock whined, tugging on his sleeve, “I want to got home.” 

“Are you two getting in or not?” the cabbie called from the open passenger window. 

John startled, having had completely forgotten about the cab. “Yes we’re coming,” he said, pulling Sherlock by the elbow into the back seat. 

“Where to?” asked the cabbie after they sat down. 

“Oxford Street,” “221B Baker Street,” John and Sherlock said at the same time. The cabbie looked between them, eyebrows raised expectantly. “Alright fine,” Sherlock sighed, “Oxford Street please.” 

The cabbie nodded and pulled out onto the street, driving them into the busy shopping area. By the time they stepped out of the cab onto the street, which was bustling with tourists and last minute present buyers, the sun had fully set and the temperature had dropped with it. John shoved his hands deep into his pockets and shivered. 

A pair of loudly chattering Americans pushed past them, knocking John into Sherlock. He shot a glare over his shoulder at the Americans as he tried to right himself, but as he turned back forward he was surprised to find Sherlock’s steadying hand on his shoulder. John smiled up at Sherlock, but before he could say anything Sherlock slid his hand down John’s arm and tucked his palm into John’s. “I thought you didn’t like holding hands in public,” John said, but didn’t remove his hand from Sherlock’s. 

“Well apparently you need protection from rude Americans,” Sherlock said, “so it’s only my duty to provide. I can’t let you walk alone.” John smiled again and leaned against Sherlock as they walked. Somehow, despite the biting air, John felt warm inside, like, by taking his hand, Sherlock had lit a candle inside of him. 

Together they gazed up at the glittering lights that were sparkling above them. The lights were strung from one roof to another, spanning the width of the street. Most of them were blue and white and dripping downwards in curtains of light. Glancing over at Sherlock, John saw that he was caught in a rare moment of unguarded wonder, the expression on his face one of awe and amazement. 

He smiled and looked back up at the lights. Gazing up at the lights and nestled against Sherlock’s side, John let his mind wander. He wondered what it would be like if they did this forever. Argue over a freshly rotting corpse, then go out for evening strolls, hand in hand. Make each other breakfast before chasing criminals through the streets of London. It felt like a life they could have together. It felt like they could spend forever the way they were now. 

Or maybe they could just spend the rest of eternity waking down this Christmas light lined street. Getting wrinkles and growing beards before they reached the end and found workers on ladders taking down the decorations. The sudden image of Sherlock as an old person startled John so much that he had to muffle his surprised laugh by burying his face in Sherlock’s shoulder. “You were picturing me as an old person, weren’t you?” Sherlock asked him. 

“How could you possibly- you know what, please don’t tell me.” Sherlock laughed and looked down at John with his lips pressed exaggeratedly together. “I was just thinking about how maybe, we could do this forever,” John said, “you and me I mean.”

Sherlock nodded. “Me too,” he said quietly. John raised his eyebrows in surprise and gave Sherlock’s hand a quick squeeze. The truth was, he didn’t really spend much time thinking about the future or how he wanted to live his life when he was old. And he didn’t think Sherlock was the sort to think about that a lot either. But since he’d gotten together with Sherlock he had found a life that he wanted to keep. It felt like a precious gem, or a fragile child, that he was cradling in his hand, desperate not to drop it or let it go. Instead he wanted to hold on forever, making sure that it never got hurt. 

It felt like if he could stay as happy as he was now for a long time to come, then he would have lived his life well. It felt like he had found a place that felt exactly right and he didn’t ever want to leave. And judging by the look on Sherlock’s face, he felt the same way. 

They walked along Oxford Street for a while longer, gazing around at the lights and the decorations and all of the people. The smell of peppermint drifted towards them from somewhere in the distance and the sounds of people talking and Christmas carols piped in through hidden speakers filled the air. 

After a while they reach a less busy area and the Christmas lights turned from huge displays into smaller strings put up in shop windows and wrapped around trees. The noises died down a little as the street became less crowded and eventually John stopped and looked up a Sherlock. “Should we get a cab to go home?” he asked. 

Sherlock nodded and stepped closer to the curb, waiting for a moment before raising his hand as a cab approached. For the second time that evening a cab pulled up next to them and they got in. This time there was no disagreement, Sherlock gave the cabbie their address and they settled in, pressed close together in the back of a cab, to go home.


	24. Day 24 - Hot Chocolate

“Sorry for calling you guys on Christmas Eve,” said Lestrade, who had called them desperately a few hours earlier with a particularly nasty case. They were standing just outside the police tape of a crime scene, Sherlock having finished examined the body for Lestrade a few minutes before. 

“Christmas-? Tomorrow is Christmas?” Sherlock said, looking around as if a calendar would be floating midair somehow. 

“Yes Sherlock, tomorrow is Christmas,” John said exasperatedly

“Oh. I must have deleted that information in favor of something else,” he said. John made annoyed eye contact with Lestrade, who seemed amused by this exchange.

“Well, still. I apologize for interrupting your Christmas Eve. Enjoy your holidays,” he said, turning away and getting into his car. 

As soon as Lestrade had driven away John turned to Sherlock. “You really forgot that it was Christmas Eve?” he asked. 

“Yes, really. Why on Earth is the information that tomorrow is a holiday important? I only need to know it’s a holiday on the holiday. Any other time is a waste of brain space.” John shook his head in disbelief and Sherlock shrugged as if this were a perfectly normal explanation. Taking John’s hand, he began walking away from the crime scene and back towards Baker Street. 

They walked in silence for a while before John saw a cafe coming up at the end of the street. “Want some hot chocolate?” he asked Sherlock as they walked towards it. 

“Sure,” said Sherlock, and when they reached the cafe he pulled open the door for John and they stepped inside. Sherlock didn’t let go of his hand as they got in line and John leaned against him as they waited, happy that Sherlock was finally comfortable holding hands in public. 

When they’d first gotten together and Sherlock had shyly evaded holding John’s hand John had been disappointed but hadn’t fought it. He’d been surprised that Sherlock, who was usually unabashed about everything, preferred not to show public displays of affection, but understood where he was coming from and respected Sherlock’s decision. 

But now that Sherlock had assimilated to being with him, romantically and publicly, John had no plans on refusing when Sherlock reached out and grabbed his hand. He was all too happy to walk hand in hand down the street with his boyfriend. 

They stepped up to the counter a few minutes later, hands tucked firmly together, to order. “Two hot chocolates,” John said. The girl behind the counter nodded and typed their order into the register.

“Names?” she asked. They gave her their names and paid, going to stand at the end of the counter to wait for their drinks. 

As they waited Sherlock looked around the cafe, scanning the customers and immediately taking in their life stories as he did so. He became particularly absorbed by a girl sitting by the window and, without realizing it, began staring at her. John looked up at him and, realizing that he was openly watching someone from across the cafe, shook his hand slightly to get his attention. Sherlock seemed to snap out of his trance and turned his head towards John. Seeing that John was looking up at him in concern he cleared his throat and looked forward. “Sorry,” he said, “some people just have more layers to be deduced than others.” 

John looked over at the girl and nodded, seeing nothing but a girl sitting by a window. “She’s pretty,” he said. Sherlock frowned. “Not as pretty as you,” John reassured him and Sherlock’s frown disappeared. A moment later their names were called and John briefly let go of Sherlock’s hand to get their drinks. As soon as he handed Sherlock his hot chocolate he returned his hand to Sherlock’s and they left the cafe to continue their walk home. 

A cold winter breeze was wafting down the street, but the hot chocolate in one hand, and Sherlock’s hand in the other, kept John’s ungloved hands warm as they walked. John took a sip of his hot chocolate and burnt his tongue. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his sharp and exhale. “Hey, I’m in pain here,” John said at his barely suppressed smile. 

“I didn’t say anything,” said Sherlock as he unlocked the door to 221B. 

“Yeah, but you thought it,” said John as he stepped through the door. 

“Mhm, here,” Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him. John, surprised by the unexpected kiss, backed into the wall across from the coat rack. “Feel better now?” Sherlock asked. John rolled his eyes and handed Sherlock his hot chocolate so he could take off his coat. They headed upstairs after Sherlock had hung up his own coat. When they stepped into their flat Sherlock immediately flopped into his chair, nearly spilling his hot chocolate as he dramatically tipped his head backwards. 

John sat down across from him and set his hot chocolate on the side table by his chair. He opened his computer and began to draft a blog post, sipping at his hot chocolate as he typed. Sherlock was still leaning backwards, he head almost entirely upside down. When he straightened himself into an upright position his face was slightly read and his hair was flopping in his eyes. John glances up at him and, seeing his hair in its state of disarray, laughed. 

Sherlock frowned and ran his hand through his curls, trying to neaten them. “Here,” John said, leaning forward and tucking one of Sherlock’s curls back into place. Sherlock smiled gratefully and picked up a book, opening it, but staring off into space instead of reading. He pensively took a sip of his hot chocolate, going over their case from earlier in his mind. 

They sat quietly, drinking their hot chocolate for a while, Sherlock getting up and pacing around the room at one point. John typed away at his blog, reading through comments and checking his stats. A case from a few weeks ago was getting a lot of attention and his inbox was full of curious readers asking for more information. 

He began responding to them as Sherlock drained the last of his hot chocolate and picked up his violin. He began to play, looking down at the street from the window as he did so. It was to the sound of Sherlock’s playing that John spent the next few hours, sunken into his chair and working on his blog. The sound of violin music and computer keys filled 221B Baker Street for the rest of the afternoon and into the night as John and Sherlock spent time both together and in their own private worlds.


	25. Day 25 – Christmas

John woke up on Christmas morning with Sherlock sleeping soundly next to him. He was breathing softly, his quiet inhales and exhales lulling John into a dreamy state of half-awake reverie. He laid like that, staring at the ceiling with his side pressed against Sherlock’s, as the sun slowly rose outside the window and filled the room with morning light. It seemed to illuminate everything with a dim golden glow that added to John’s sense of being inside a dream.

He still woke early every day, a habit from his time in the military. But since he had started sleeping in Sherlock’s room, instead of his own, he’d taken to lying awake each morning with Sherlock sleeping next to him, letting the sun greet him, instead of the other way around. The first half hour of the day passed quietly, with John tucked happily against Sherlock’s side. The only sound was the gentle rhythm of Sherlock’s breath and the subdued singing of the birds outside.

John turned to face Sherlock, who slept peacefully beside him. John could see his eyes flickering behind his eyelids as he dreamt, but otherwise he was entirely still, he chest barely rising and falling with his breath. The early morning light and the shadows that remained from the night before played off the curves and lines of his face, making him look almost like a fairy tale character. John resisted the urge to kiss him and wake him from his slumber.

When Sherlock did wake it was sudden and without warning. He lifted his head abruptly from the pillow and he looked around the room before his eyes landed on John. Seeing John smiling up at him he relaxed and put his head back down, blinking sleepily at him. “It’s Christmas,” John whispered, pressing a kiss to the tip of Sherlock’s nose.

Lines appeared on Sherlock’s forehead and he looked muddled, like he was trying to recalibrate his brain after sleeping and remember what day it was. “Yes, yes,” he said groggily, “S’ Christmas. Merry Christmas. Coffee.” He tossed the blankets down to the end of the bed, uncovering John in the process, and got up without another word, walking into the kitchen to make coffee. John followed him a minute later and found Sherlock standing, barefoot and swathed in a maroon dressing gown, before their irritable coffee machine.

John walked up to him, planting a good morning kiss on his cheek and running his fingers through Sherlock’s sleep tousled hair. Sherlock leaned against him for a moment before getting out two mugs, filling one for himself, and handing the other to John. He stirred his sugar into his coffee while John poured himself a cup and they sat down together at the kitchen table. Sherlock slid a newspaper that was sitting across the table towards himself, but frowned when he realized it was the previous day’s paper and tromped downstairs to get the more recent version that was waiting for him by the door.

When John heard him coming back upstairs there were two sets of footsteps instead of one. He furrowed his brow and leaned forward, trying to figure out who was with Sherlock this early in the morning on a holiday. A minute later Sherlock appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson close behind him. “Merry Christmas dear,” she said to John as she crossed the kitchen threshold and walked towards him. Her expression was bright and wide-awake in a way John knew he and Sherlock wouldn’t become for another hour.

He smiled, looking up from his coffee to greet her, his sleepy-eyed expression a sharp contrast to her lively one. “Merry Christmas,” he said in return as Sherlock sat back down across from him and with a very grumpy look on his face. “What’s the matter?” John asked him. 

“It’s Christmas,” he said, “the paper doesn’t come out on Christmas. Without looking up from the table Sherlock took a sip of his coffee and asked Mrs. Hudson to get him a piece of toast.

Mrs. Hudson put her hands on her hip and John kicked him under the table. “Sherlock Holmes, I am not you housekeeper or your mother,” she said, rightfully in a huff and turned, giving one last smile to John before turning to leave. Sherlock glanced up from his coffee to meet John’s disapproving eyes. 

“It was worth a shot,” he muttered. John rolled his eyes and got up to make toast for the two of them. A few minutes later he placed a plate in front of Sherlock, who grunted a “thanks,” and continued pouting about his paper. They ate their breakfast in silence, Sherlock eventually opening his phone to skim the news. 

Sherlock took the last bites of his toast and went over to the couch, where he laid down with his hands behind his head and his feet extended over the armrest, closing his eyes. John drank the final dregs of his coffee and went into the living room where Sherlock was stretched out. He considered sitting down in his own chair, but decided against it and went over to the couch where Sherlock was laying. “Scoot over,” he said, tapping Sherlock on the shoulder.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up at him for a second before rolling onto his side to make room for John. John lowered himself onto the couch, his back pressed against Sherlock so that they were both facing the fireplace across the room. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s waist and tucked his chin against John’s shoulder. “Should we open our presents now, or later?” he asked, looking over at the small stack of gifts that was sitting beneath their tree.

“Let’s just lay here for a while,” John murmured shifting his shoulders so that he was pressed closer to Sherlock. Sherlock nodded in agreement and they both sighed, letting their breaths become synchronized as they laid together, relaxing in the other’s warmth. John felt Sherlock drifting off again, and he closed his eyes as well, happy to spend his Christmas napping in Sherlock’s arms. Just before he fell asleep he heard Sherlock whisper something in his ear. “Hm, what?” he said quietly.

Sherlock repeated himself quietly, “Merry Christmas, John.”

John smiled. “Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thats the end! A huge huge thank you to everyone who’s read, particularly those who’ve who’ve stuck around with me all month and/or commented and left kudos, y’all are the best <3 
> 
> Happy Holidays everyone!


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